


The Shield

by RedSmileyFace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Blackwater AU, Book Spoilers, F/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-28 22:52:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 45,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSmileyFace/pseuds/RedSmileyFace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PREVIOUSLY ENTITLED "CONSUMED BY YOUR PRESENCE"<br/>It takes Sandor a little longer to defect from the Lannisters. It takes Sansa a little longer to escape King's Landing. Eventually, these things still do happen. Post Battle of  Blackwater Bay AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa's Wedding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyTP](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTP/gifts).



> This story, despite my preference to finish a story before posting, is not done. But it is part of a challenge, so I felt the need to start posting. The challenge was for me to write an "unresolved sexual tension" story (while I challenged another to do a "quick" one). Because I do not know how this story will end yet, it will stay with the "M" rating for now. Also, it will follow a weekly posting, so I (hopefully) don't fall behind.
> 
> I plan to write about a still naive and innocent Sansa, and will try to get into her head. She's still 14, but since this is a UST, I don't plan to have her still that age by the end of this... I also plan to try a more cannon following of the books, even though Sandor is still around. (Wish me luck!)
> 
> Hope it is enjoyed, and reviews are awesome and greatly appreciated!

"As I am the father of the realm," King Joffrey speaks, "I will walk you down the aisle." He smirks, pleased as a peacock, asking Sansa what she thinks of that. She stares at him blankly, her mind equally void of emotion, automatically and satisfactorily replying to him. Only briefly do her eyes flicker to the guard standing behind the King, finding strength from his height and breadth, before maneuvering to accept King Joffrey's proffered arm.

She had seen the Hound looking at her, as he was wont to do. It used to disgust her, make her shake in fear and embarrassment, especially as his eyes normally blaze in anger (of reasons she knows not of). Now, after the fires of battle had receded and the threat of King Stannis is no more, she finds Sandor Clegane a source of comfort. And not as a blanket on a cold winter's night, but as a shield weight that assures its wearer, they are protected.

(Though Sansa had once held a shield, and dropped it in a rather undignified manner due to its weight, causing her siblings to laugh in good fun; a shield is all she can think of when thinking of Sandor. She reflects, the more one holds a shield, the more it would meld into one's arm. The more she knows of Sandor...)

On the night of the Battle of Blackwater Bay, after the ringing of the King's victorious bells, the Hound had come pounding on Sansa's door. Still fearful of him then, she had not opened or unbarred her door, standing upright before it (though he could not see her) and had demanded he desist his dreadful manner. He had drunkenly laughed at her, and told her, yet again, of his wish for a song.

"When you deserve it." she coldly replied, only later regretting her harsh words. He laughed some more, cursing at her and asking her what had he been doing all night, but fighting for her? "Fuck the city." He had said. "Fuck the Imp, and fuck the King." He lowered his voice, though she could still hear through the thick oak door. "Fuck the fire; I did it for you, Little Bird."

After a few moments of silence, she heard a thump, and could only conclude he had fallen to the floor just outside her rooms. She remained standing, stunned and confused.

It was during the hours of that night that she had reevaluated everything in their interactions. She had always thanked him for his protection and kindness for individual events (and had always received acrid remarks in return), but had never really thought about his deeds all together. That night, she thought that perhaps he did deserve a song of thanks from her, and she blushed in shame. Vulgar, course, scarred; she had only ever addressed the Hound, and not the man, when it was obvious (should anyone pay attention) the man is more honorable than any knight in the realm.

She walked to the door, and touched it with her fingertips. "You won't hurt me." She whispers, revelation stunning her, yet relieving as well.

Despite the fact that Sandor could not have possibly heard her, he still said something that sounded like a response, "I won't hurt you, Little Bird."

The next day, others in the castle gossiped that Sandor had gone to Sansa with his blood up, with intentions of raping her. It did not help that he awoke with a vicious hangover, and therefore, a vicious attitude. She says nothing to those rumors, letting the Hound keep his crude mask as she does her own docile one. She knows that while he may have wanted her physically, he also came to her to make sure no other blooded man would violate her either. His feet were not the only ones to pass by her door (as most frighteningly those of Ser Trant) , but Sandor's were the only ones to stay.

He had awoken foul, but Sansa awoke refreshed, invigorated with a new found sense of protection, and recognizing an honorable friend that had always been there...

Cersei had smirked at Sansa, a way of her saying "I told you so.": a slice of cake, indeed. It was worse than Joffrey's cruel naivety, asking her how she would have felt had there been no bar on her door. ("So afraid, your grace." she replied.) But once Joffrey turns his head, she shyly smiles in Sandor's direction, and while he looks mildly surprised, he also slightly inclines his head towards her (they are in public after all).

There had been no words necessary, but it was in that moment that their friendship stuck true.

Tywin had been cold and calculating on the matter, on the verge of punishing the Hound for daring to sniff after that which isn't his. Sansa is still a pawn, after all: the key to the north if things went their way, and the Lannisters so wanted a foot in the snow. While King Joffrey became betrothed to a non-traitorous woman to cement a rich new alliance, the Lannisters still had bachelors within their ranks.

So here they are, bringing Sansa to marry the Imp.

Joffrey takes the stool meant for Tyrion away, and she feels frustration and embarrassment emanating from the dwarf. _He does not have to marry me!_ Sansa thinks. Looking towards Sandor, she also thinks, _He cannot help me; maybe Tyrion is equally tied by something I cannot know._ While Tyrion may not be her choice for a husband, he is the one who will vow to protect her. Perhaps, in his own stunted way, marrying Sansa was Tyrion's way of protecting her. As much as she distrusts any Lannister, she knows that Tyrion is a better choice than Joffrey, and should enlist any help from him, no matter how small. Even Sandor's mere presence, while seemingly not doing anything, is a balm to Sansa...

When Tyrion goes to place his cloak on her, Sansa kneels without being prompted, though she finds her eyes drifting towards Sandor.

He stands behind the king. Joffrey wanted to observe Sansa's reactions, so had stood off to the side of his uncle, every now and then laughing and commenting about the farce they're witnessing, despite the solemnity of the Sept, or the cold glare of his grandfather. Sansa ignores it all in favor of watching Sandor.

He eyes her back, furious. He wants her for himself, she can tell, and it is made worse that they're giving her to the Imp, of all people. She does not know why he hates Tyrion so, but she stares back, letting him know she feels the same. Not that he should be the one behind her, cloaking her, no maybe not that; but anger that she's being given away, still a pawn, still with no choice.

Sandor grounds her in this farce of a wedding. The only one who would not pity her, who would not laugh at her, who would, if given the chance, make it better for her. He can't, but the thought of it makes her breath easier.

When it is time for the exchange of vows, she looks towards her husband as he speaks his part. When it is her turn, however, she looks directly at Sandor, who had shuffled a bit to be right over Tyrion's shoulder from her vantage point. Everyone in the Sept is looking at Sansa, so no one sees Sandor gazing at her with such steel and stone as she recites her vows.

She is not vowing to him as she looks at him; no, she looks to soothe his irritation, and to gain strength from his presence. So long as he is near, she can make it through whatever the lions decide to throw at her.

She kisses Tyrion with eyes closed, having only wormy lips to compare to, and ultimately just wondering what the Hound might taste like.


	2. Sansa's Bedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the reviews/kudos. I'm so humbled and amazed, and I hope the rest continues to be enjoyed! Fair warning, I will be taking liberties with the history between Sandor and Tyrion, which is first hinted at in this chapter; so be prepared for possibly non-cannon characterizations in future chaps.

"I'll geld you!" Tyrion threatens his nephew while pushing his chair back, punctuating his statement by thrusting his dagger into the table. Joffrey is momentarily stunned to silence, but before he or anyone else has a chance to do or say anything, Sandor shoves his way through to grab the hilt within Tyrion's hand, and forces the blade from the wood. Placing his free hand upon Tyrion's shoulder, he pushes the dwarf, none to gently, to the chair saying, "Sit down before you hurt yourself."

Lord Tywin steps forward to assert authority, and of course Cersei looks murderous, but Sandor cares not for any strutting, rather choosing to grab at Sansa's waist, and crushing her to him. The Lannisters all still, waiting to see what their faithful retainer will do. Still looking to Tyrion, Sandor quips, "After all, this is supposed to be a joyful occasion." He sounds far from cheerful, though. "I'll take your lovely new wife to your chambers." He starts to turn away, before glancing at the drunken groom again, "Don't lose your balance finding the way to your rooms."

A hesitant laugh ripples through the stunned silence; even Joffrey manages a small titter at his Hound's words, finding joy again at teasing his uncle by telling the ladies to attend the groom, smirking as his favorite "pet" manhandles the bride.

Tyrion continues to glare, but says nothing. Sandor hands the dagger to a frowning Lord Tywin, before using both hands to lift Sansa over his shoulder, his chainmail digging into her ribs. One hand lands on her ass, the other grasps her ankle, his warmth radiating through her silk stocking. She squeals indignantly, at once wishing Tyrion had been more effective of protecting her from the "bedding". The hall erupts in laughter at her embarrassment, and she wonders if proper bedding wouldn't have been better after all...

As they leave the feast, though, she knows Sandor was only trying to help her escape both Joffrey's cruel hands and Tyrion's damaging words, and she feels shame at losing her trust in him so quickly. No sooner then she thinks this, Sandor gently places her on her feet again and then escorts her to her rooms as any honorable man would: her hand gently held in the crook of his elbow.

Glancing at his face, she sees his jaw working, his brow low and foreboding. Still, she knows the anger is not directed at her, but for her. "Thank you." she whispers.

He says nothing, but nods once to let her know he heard and acknowledged.

They reach the rooms for the bedding, Tyrion's rooms in fact, and stop before the door. Sandor seems to be steeling himself for a moment, before brusquely opening it and gesturing Sansa inside.

Turning to face him, she makes it no farther than his throat, before she trembles, the weight of the situation again falling on her in the quiet confines of another man's rooms: her _husband's_ rooms. When Sandor's warm and gentle hands fall upon her shoulders, she shudders, eyes closing and tears falling.

"It's alright, Little Bird," he whispers, "he won't hurt you... I'll make sure of it." It's said so softly, but so assuredly, that she cannot help but believe him. Finally looking at his eyes, she nods.

Sandor seems hesitant to let go of her. Far from being annoyed, afraid, or angry, Sansa watches him, feeling a flutter of anticipation. Later, she will wonder at the complete trust she has in him, to both let him touch her, and _want_ it back. At the time, caught up in the moment, the fleeting thoughts are that she wishes it was the Hound she was married to instead of the Imp; if she had had the option to choose between monsters in the dark.

His eyes fall to her neckline, following his hands as they take a life of their own, tracing Sansa's smooth neck, finding her pulse and tracing the hollow at the throat. His hand is gentle, though the mere idea that he could engulf her, and strangle, but does not in favor of adoring her instead, is confusing but poignant to her. He could hurt her more than anyone else in the keep, yet does the polar opposite... she shudders in wonder.

Her collarbone, and the swell of her breasts, they are also traced. He hesitates at a hitch in her breath, but continues when she says or does nothing to stop him. Gently, as if he had intimate moments with ladies all the time, he starts unlacing her bodice. Never once do his hands falter, nor do his eyes fall away from his task. The last tie undone, though, he looks back to Sansa's face. Seeing her trusting and willing, he again palms her shoulders. "Little Bird has grown fond of me, hasn't she?"

Sansa nods, acknowledging his gaze as fervently as she had once shied away from it. At last, he slowly caresses her arms, bringing the shoulders of her dress down along, though his gaze stays glued to hers, her trust more wonderful then her beauty, for now.

The weight of the material eventually brings the dress all the way down, and Sansa is left in her shift, silk stockings, garters, and her dainty slippers. The moments stretch long, and Sandor has to see her in her splendor. Seeing his face go slack with desire, Sansa fights the impulse to cover her chest, instead somewhat gratified at his reaction; being able to bring the Hound to heel is a heady feeling.

But it's also worrying; she does not want to betray his friendship by mocking his feelings. Sansa cannot desire him back that way, but still she could give something to assure him of her need for him. She raises her own hands to place on his chest, over the chain mail that has absorbed his heat and digs into her palms comfortingly.

Relishing his heat and steady presence, she can only hope Tyrion is equally warm and comforting, but doubts it. Grabbing at the neckline, she pulls him closer, wanting more of his protection wrapped around her.

He doesn't disappoint, grabbing her waist in turn, and bringing her the rest of the way. At once she feels his hardness against her, and gasps. He does not stay still, running his hands up and down her sides as if to chase a chill away. She is not cold, but it does help to chase her fears away, fears of the impending bedding, and of Sandor's own fierce lusts.

He buries his face in her neck, inhaling her scent and daring to kiss and lick at her neck as well. Far from complaining, she swoons over his masculine scent and falls willingly into his strong arms: wondering how far she would let him go, if given the chance; surprised at the feelings of _want_ coursing through her, from _him_ of all people!

Soon enough however, they can hear faint laughter down the hall. Obviously, Tyrion's procession is taking longer, and is following a proper bedding sequence. Both well aware that what they are doing would be frowned upon, they still their movements.

Swiftly, Sandor pulls back from Sansa, but before she can pout too much, leans down to capture her lips in a kiss.

Surprised, she opens her mouth in a squeak, which he takes advantage of and thrusts his tongue in. It is far more absorbing then Tyrion's kiss, and she knows now that Tyrion can never compare to Sandor. Tyrion was more careful, hesitant, tasted more of wine then of man, whereas Sandor is the reverse: demanding, consuming, hot, and purely masculine, the alcohol only feeding the frenzy. Moaning at the sensations rolling through her, throwing caution out the wind due to the seconds dwindling away, she sucks at his tongue daringly, at once biting him in show of affection, acceptance of his desire and wish for it to continue.

He growls his approval, before releasing her and stepping away. His eyes show his reluctance, and even a bit of anger at the situation. She stares at him, returning her own disappointment, before the door opens and she lowers her eyes demurely and shyly, hugging her arms around her chest.

Turning around, Sandor glares at the now disheveled dwarf. Far from being intimidated, the nearly unclothed dwarf just throws a quip out, something along the lines of thanking Clegane sarcastically for taking care of _his_ wife, all of which Sansa ignores in favor of staring at the floor.

Sandor's reply, however, cannot be ignored. "You owe me." he rasps towards Tyrion.

Tyrion says nothing, just becomes serious as if noticing Sandor for the first time. When Tyrion finally nods his agreement to whatever it is that is between them, Sandor stalks out of the room. It leaves Sansa confused, and it takes her husband a few tries to get her attention again.

Though, to her immense relief, it is just to assure her he will never take her against her will, even if she never wanted him.


	3. Tyrion's Solo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed last week... oops... and it's a short chapter too. Sorry! The next chapter will be longer, and soonish in coming. That said, I really like Tyrion, and I hope this chapter is still enjoyed!

"Your brothers are all dead now." Tyrion had told his young wife. "Your mother and your oldest brother have fallen, brutally murdered while attending your uncle's wedding at the Twins." He had finished. She said nothing, her impeccable mask as cold as ever, even after he had pleaded that she trusts him, her  _husband_. She had only thanked him;  _thanked_ him, of all things! Polite as ever, gratitude for the news of her family, as if they were all fine and he was telling her they had changed from summer sheets to winter... He repeated the sad news, thinking she might have misheard or misunderstood, yet all she had done was ask to be alone.

Tyrion can now hear Sansa through the door as she cries; cries as loudly as trapped ladies could cry. Her mask has fallen away, and she is freely giving in to her emotions. But not in front of him: not with her husband as a confidant or comforter. No, the dog, Clegane, takes that lucky position.

Tyrion touches the door to his and Sansa's, rooms; not really knowing why, but thinking it would be the closest he ever gets to touching her in comfort. Being on the other side of the door, away and unnoticed, but granting her her peace, just shy of actively pushing the door open with his hand...

She is beautiful, his wife Sansa: cute, naive, endearing, and he admires her brand of courage: it is what calls him, her innocent strength. And he can not deny having a physical affection for her, for no hot blooded man could deny her beauty... but having had a few senights to reflect now, he knows it is not marital love that blossoms in his heart, but familial affection. She has taken the role of a dependent, and he has never quite had someone depend on him for protection. While she does not look towards him for such, per say, she has not turned him outright either.

Subtleties are one of Tyrion's gifts, and he knows that, subtly, Sansa prefers him,  _might_ even like him, more then most anyone else at the Keep at the moment. He knows that she knows he can protect her (to the best of his abilities), and will not violate her. She trusts him, as far as she can trust  _any_ Lannister.

The only one she trusts more, the only one who can do better then her own husband, is Clegane.

Tyrion hangs his head in anguish, placing that on the door as well. How their roles have reversed, his and Clegane's. It used to be that he, Tyrion, had the affection of someone worth something to Sandor. Tyrion, having done very little to earn Clegane's trust in the first place, had made it worse when he lost that which they both loved. If loved for different reasons...

Every now and then, Tryion can hear Sandor's murmuring through the thick oak door, but he cannot hear what is said. It is just as well, Tyrion would probably cringe and think about what he would say, and how better he would sound then what the Hound was butchering with that grating and brutally honest voice. However, it is not how and what the words being used that endears Clegane to Sansa, it is his actions.  _When_  she had finally realized to look for the solid wall of action, as opposed to the winded words, Tyrion does not know, but he is glad she has learned to look beyond the superficial.

He just wished it had been he, instead of Clegane, who had earned her whole trust. After all, Tyrion  _had_ protected her once or twice, stopped the beatings and the berating, and  _had_ placed her under his care, as Hand to the King and later as a husband...

Others in the castle might have gossiped, if they knew the Hound was in Sansa's presence alone, consoling her, no doubt holding her in his arms. Thank the gods no one knows, or they might have sneered and besmirched not only Sansa, but himself as well, the cuckolded husband. Tyrion himself might have had a snide word or ten for Sandor, but he alone knows the affection between his wife and his family's retainer. He knew it the instant Clegane had told him that he owed him; Sandor had never come to collect Tyrion's due before.

That wasn't the only instance of Sandor caring for Sansa that Tyrion recalls. He remembers a throne room incident that involved Sansa's torn gown and Sandor's stained cloak. That Sandor had saved Sansa from the riots because Sandor wanted to, not from any order. And he notices that Sandor stares at Sansa every chance he gets, and was far better at hiding his attentions then Tyrion would think Sandor was capable of. There is a real chance for Sandor to protect, even save, Sansa; should the Hound stay true the way of the Warrior, and not fall back to the Stranger.

For Sansa is good for Sandor's health, Tyrion wryly thinks. The dog rarely fucked bitches anymore, nor lapped up more alcohol then was seemingly. Tyrion knows Sandor is getting thanks from Sansa in some form, and is amazed that such innocent words and kind attentions (for he knows her virtue is still intact) are enough to tame the crude beast.

Reflecting some more, Tyrion finds that he is happy to pay his debt to Clegane. Was it anything else, he might have been furious, threatened, or insulted, but with Sansa's protection... He alone can tell how each is good for the other, and is happy that he can be a sort of champion for them, making sure they have this quiet time, without anyone the wiser.

So, he guesses he did console Sansa, in quite the round about way. He waddles away from their rooms, thinking about the strong Starks, and cringing at their misfortunes as of late.


	4. Joffrey's Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of the chapters in existence for this story so far, this is my least favorite. It might be because it was a b*** to write, or maybe I'm justified in my moaning and groaning over this. Can I get some support? Or some insights to make it better? I might rewrite this before the story is "complete".
> 
> From this point on, we have passed season three of GoT, and are headed into book territory. Spoilers might happen, though obviously my interpretations have different outcomes then in the books.

"An amethyst has come loose," Lady Olena Tyrell comments, gesturing to Sansa's hairnet of precious purple stones, "Let me fix it for you." And so she does. If Sansa had known what was to come from that simple and seemingly kind gesture, she would have... well, she does not know what she would have done. At once wishing it had been successful, at another instance thinking it could have made things worse. She can only thank the gods, old and new, that Sandor was around, no matter the outcome.

It had been an enjoyable evening, as far as evenings could go in the Red Keep, married to one Lannister and treated like dung by three others. Despite that, the food was good (if not an extravagant waste, she couldn't help but think of the riots), and the dancing was a wonderful distraction.

Sansa was a true lady that night. Despite Joffrey's horrid insinuations of taking her behind Tyrion's back, and Tyrion's own drunkenness and foolishness: Sansa permitted herself a modicum of happiness. She refused to let things stand in the way of her greeting people politely, and being received kindly in turn. Tyrion praised her honest, and kind, words towards his cousin, the wounded Lancel. Lord Garlan, the Gallant, Tyrell was a true gentleman upon the dance floor, and an inspirational loving husband towards his lady wife. And when Sansa gossiped with Lady Margaery Tyrell, it was as if Jeyne Poole were standing next to her again. She laughed, and was happy for a time.

Every now and then, she'd look in the direction of Sandor, and grace him with a smile. He never smiled back, but he always met her eyes. She wished she could dance with him, feel his warm hands soothe her, and feel his strength uphold her. Alas, not only did Sandor not like to dance (that she could tell), but he was on duty as well: armored, against the wall near the dais, observant and dangerous.

If she could have Sandor near her, perhaps the increasingly drunk Tyrion would not embarrass her so, she might have avoided being anywhere near Joffrey's cruelty towards his uncle, or Tyrion's scathing comments that only made things worse... unfortunately, when dinner arrived, she had to sit there, so close to both and so far from any comfort.

Then Joffrey was to drink of his wine. Before he could bring the chalice to his wormy lips, however, Sandor had knocked it out his hands, once again coming out the shadows when he was needed. The ringing silence that follows is only broken by a dog moving forward to drink at the spilled wine.

"It is poisoned, your grace." Sandor offers after a short pause.

Lord Tywin stands, asserting his presence, "And how do you know that, Clegane?"

Sandor stares back, unfazed, "The coloring, my lord. It was different then the other cups of wine."

Tywin wants to ask more, but then they are all distracted by the dog, the one drinking the spilled contents, suddenly wining and hacking, like a cat choking on a hairball. Silence, except for the dog, reigns again.

When the poor beast finally stops writhing, falling piteously to the floor, Cersei rushes forward and embraces Joffrey to her, dislodging the new Queen Margery from her spot at the dais. Margery herself looks more confused then stunned, should anyone look. Cersei's eyes are blazing elsewhere, however, and she focuses her fury upon her younger brother. "You! How dare you threaten the king!"

Tyrion barely has a chance to open his mouth before Cersei yells for the guards to grab the imp. And, though Tyrion does not resist (for what could he do?) pandemonium breaks out in the hall.

Sansa herself is rooted to her spot, frozen, scared and unsure of what to make of the situation. And though the dog had died by poison, the wine and blood on the floor penetrate her imagination as she stares at the unfortunate four legged soul, to offer her a vision of Lady; innocent but sacrificed.

Though the sounds and the visions of the commotion do not reach her, a hand comes out of the craziness to snare her, dragging her out of the hall. It yells at her that now is the time to escape, though she barely registers such, still in a fog of confusion.

When she finally trips on a step, though, everything comes rushing back. The man dragging her is Dontos. Though he glances at her briefly to make sure she didn't fall as well as trip, he turns his wild eyes forward again, muttering about failed plans, but hoping the boat is still there...

"What are you doing!?" Sansa finally asks.

"Don't worry, my lady." He says with a waiver in his tone, "I'm taking you away from the city, you'll be free, we'll be free!"

She hesitates only a moment, thinking of the dead dog, and thinking of Sandor, before rushing forward again. Her mind is so frayed, so worried about what the Lannisters would punish her with for this (though she had done nothing), that any option to flee the Keep would be gladly followed, even one as offered by the fool. It has to work. It _has_ to.

They make it as far as the sand on the beach, a little row boat visible even in the darkness to her accustomed eyes, before the thunder of hooves break their little silence of harsh breaths and swishing clothes.

It is Sandor upon his hell horse, Stranger. Sansa and her would-be rescuer both gasp, though for different reasons. Dontos immediately starts moaning in worry and fear, a cadence of "no... no... no.." breaking through his lips.

Fear also strikes through Sansa, though only because she has never seen such an impressive display from Sandor directed at her! When he and Stranger reach them, they rear up, Stranger neighing his fury and showcasing his majesty. Sandor is equally impressive, tall, wide, furious, and wielding his bastard sword.

A third man is coming from the boat, getting his own sword out, but the fool has been immobile since Sandor's appearance. The Hound wastes no more time or even thinks to asks questions, just uses the forward motion of Stranger to hack down, severing life from Dontos' being.

Sansa screams at the brutal display, shuddering as the fool's warm blood sprays on her. But Sandor only gallops on to face the other man who was to have helped her, meeting the unknown with sword upon shield. She stands rooted to the spot, shivering in the cold night and the cruel visions, eyes morbidly watching the lifeblood of Dontos staining the sand, as Ser Hugh's had once stained the tournament grounds.

She had tried to be impassive with Hugh's death, and she feels shame and wanting to feel coldness towards a stranger who had done her no ill will. Here, now, was a man who had tried to get her away from the city, and she feels... what?

As the clangs of swords and shields ring in the background, she wonders at why she doesn't cry over Dontos. She always felt repulsed by him, his greedy hands and disgusting lips. The only thing going for him was his promise to get her away from the Keep.

Away from Sandor.

Tears finally fall from her eyes, though not for the fool, but for her protector and shield. What would Dontos have done to protect her once away from the Red Keep? Get drunk and fondle her some more? He didn't even pretend at defending her against Sandor.

Truly regretting ever trusting the fool, Sansa turns towards Sandor just as he defeats the unknown man, knocking him unconscious (though still alive).

Sandor, off of Stranger's back, rushes to Sansa and crushes her to him, falling to the sand in some sort of relief.

"How did you know where to follow?" She whispers into his neck.

He pulls back, hands grasping her shoulders harshly, and answers her question with his own; "What the _fuck_ were you thinking? Stupid bird, how could you trust that fool? Like as not, he'd use you for some gain, and then where would you be? Huh!? Raped, dead in a ditch somewhere!"

Surprised at his outburst, though she should not have been, she cowers a little before his fury, mumbling that she had thought to escape, to which he just scoffs at.

A multitude of emotions and thoughts swirling around, not helped by seeing two deaths that day. Brutal, gruesome, innocent deaths, and she was so close to freedom. And Sandor, her friend and protector, stood here and yelled at her, eyes blazing in renewed anger. He had prevented her escape (questionable though it might have been) and is now hurting her.

She tells him so, and he finally releases her bruising shoulders. He abruptly places her up on Stranger, seats himself before her, and takes them back to the Keep, where she would find that a bunch of soldiers had been sent out to search for her. Had Sandor not chosen his path, she and Dontos might have escaped...

But... Sandor was here, her true protector, no matter his role in this moment; she has to remind herself that he is still a better man then another.

Grabbing at him from behind, finding purchase wherever his armor had grooves, she holds onto him and cries. He is the only one to see and hear, who would not use it against her, and he is the stone from which she can crash upon; he is here to let her truly be herself. Had she gone with the fool, how much more of "Sansa" would have been lost?

He whispers into the night, though she can barely hear as he didn't turn towards her. He says he is sorry, that he should have let her escape. He says sorry one last time, before they arrive at the Keep, soldiers milling about them.

Sandor tells them that traitors are to be found at the shore. A Ser Marbrand commands that Sansa be taken to her rooms, that the dungeon was no place for a lady and, besides, she could not put up much of a fight (like Arya had embarrassingly done).

When they finally reach her (and Tyrion's) rooms, she sinks gratefully to a chaise, and lets her cool exterior fall away once again. She does not look towards Sandor, instead staring blankly at nothing in particular, but asks him, "What will happen now?"

For a while he says nothing. He is not still though; she hears him move to close her door, and then bar it. While he paces a few times, no doubt gathering his thoughts, she realizes that she should not expect Tyrion's presence this night. For the first time since leaving the feast, she thinks upon her husband, and how he had been grabbed by the guards. No doubt he was in a cell right now, perhaps pacing as Sandor is.

She also recalls the look of stunned surprise on Tyrion's face; she knows her husband a little better then before, enough to know that while he plays the game quite admirably, using masks is not his forte, so she has little reason to believe he was faking his surprise, and even less belief that he had something to do with plotting Joffrey's murder.

And then, another startling thought hits her: would they think she was her husband's accomplice? Ser Marbrand had already confined her to her rooms. She moans in fear, in dread, in misery over how bad this night is, and how much worse it keeps getting, hour after hour. "Will they condemn me, too?" she asks.

"NO!" Sandor all but shouts. He sits next to Sansa, pulling her close. "No." he says more calmly.

"But," she refutes, "I ran from the hall. They will think it was to escape being accused..."

"They would have if you had been successful in escaping." He interrupts her. "Now, though, I can attest to how the fool tried to use the confusion to grab at you. Though he is dead, the other man, from the boat, he can, _will_ , corroborate that you had nothing to do with poisoning Joffrey."

"But..." And then he kisses her. No doubt to shut her up, but it works. Thoughts of murderous plans, Tyrion, and being so close to escaping fly out of her head, being replaced by Sandor's all-consuming presence. He seems desperate for the distraction as well, leaning into her as if to swallow her being into his, afraid she would be gone in a puff of smoke if he did not take measures to hold on to her...

Her breasts are smashed against his breastplate, and his hips dig into hers rather uncomfortably, but his mouth, as before, is hot and comforting. His hands are bruising upon her waist, but it grounds her as much as it hurts, a pain more physical and real then the ones in her mind and heart, so she accepts it.

Her hands reach for his face, grabbing each side of him. She caresses him there as he lays a trail of fire along her jawline and neck, sucking from time to time. Gasping, she arches into him some more, falling backwards to lay upon her chaise. He looms over her, armor and all, a solid wall of metal and muscle keeping the rest of the world at bay.

Her hands never leave his face, drawn there like a magnet, smoothing his scars and threading a hand through his oily hair. His hands, though, leave a trail of goosebumps up and down her sides, igniting a heat when he grabs her thighs, and opens them. She has never been so exposed like that, not even on her wedding night did she spread her legs, and she whimpers. Her hands fall to his shoulders, anchoring herself to him as surprise and lust race through her, while worry and fear pound in her head. He is not the man for her...

He kisses her again, and a little of the worry recedes. He is there for her, will always be there she thinks.

The hem of her skirts become atrociously high though; she has never entertained being an unfaithful wife before, even of such an unattractive man, and she is only fourteen still; too young to worry of such things, yet being thrust into adulthood rather unfairly and abruptly. She is a good lady, and wants to be a good wife to a childhood dream of an honorable and handsome lord... so many things have lately made her wishes seem like nightmares.

She is unsure of how to proceed. "I'm sorry." She whispers. Either Sandor does not hear, or is too far gone to care, but all he does is thrust his hips against her, crashing breeches against her womanhood and thighs. Though they are covered, it gives little protection against such an assault of the senses. Shocked and aroused, she fears the abyss she was not ready to contemplate, let alone go through with. "No!" She says, pushing at his shoulders now, "Stop!" she repeats, stronger and with an air of command.

"I'm sorry." she says again, once Sandor stops moving. After a moment of stillness from Sandor, he abruptly disentangles himself from her, standing and looking at Sansa in contriteness. He says nothing, unsure of what to say, and Sansa thinks is that he is disappointed in her. Gods, she was disappointed in herself! She turns from him, hiding her shame within her arms.

Joffrey was almost murdered, Tyrion was imprisoned, her fool was slain, a chance for escape (no matter how questionable it may have been) was lost, and Sandor, her rock and shield, had become a little too heavy to bear at the moment. He had only tried to comfort her (and himself) with his ardor, she knew even then, but it had been too much, too hard, too fast; and not at all what she needed after the events of that night. She buried her head in her arms, and shook.

"Little bird... " He says, sounding unsure, "I..." Then silence.

Soon she feels a blanket falling on her, a warm hand gently squeezing her shoulder, a grating voice stating, "You have no reason to apologize to me, my lady."

She only turned towards him again after she heard him walk out the door, afraid of his disappearance almost as much as she wishes to be free of her worries. However, she did not hear him walk away from the door. She turns again towards her room, unsure of just what she is supposed to feel at this moment, and steels herself for a sleepless night.


	5. Trial by Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was soooo terrible! For me that is, I certainly hope y'all like reading it more then I liked writing it. The following chapters were much more fun to write :) This chapter was even totally re-written at one time! Even a bit I once posted on Tumblr as a preview was changed up! It started as an omnipotent point-of-view, but was since changed to Tyrion's, and I think it works sooo much better then it was before, especially since the trial chapters were mainly his POV in the books. (spoilers, I know, sorry for those who are not that far in their reading/knowledge). Some of the final paragraphs might reflect the different POV feels. *sighs* Without further drama from the author...

Tyrion sits in his tower cell, glad to be out of the dungeons but still chafed at having to stay confined, and contemplates the trial.

For the most part, the whole thing had been a farce. No one believed that Tyrion did NOT plan the assassination of his nephew, and his lovely sister had made sure the largely circumstantial evidence backed that theory up.

The man from the boat, an "Oswell Kettleback", had said nothing, dying in the throes of tortured agony, as only Ilyn Payne and Lord Hand Tywin could inflict, with his "honor" intact. It leaves everybody clueless as to who was really behind the whole plot to poison the king. Tyrion has no doubt that  _someone_ threatened the deaths of Oswell's sons should he speak, for all three of them could be seen with fear in their eyes, wondering at their fate.

Cersei takes care of them, though. Not without ulterior motive however: all three are used to testify against Tyrion, only after Cersei lauds their past deeds for the crown, and for herself.

Osmund Kettleback in turn swears Sansa tried to seduce him to gain help, but he had refused. Much to the former Queen Regent's pleasure, Tyrion is sure... However, it seemed as if most of the court, aside from the king and former queen regent, could hardly believe that sweet, kind, and naive Sansa could plot someone's death, let alone seduce a man!

The other testimonies were far more damning, however, for  _both_ him and Sansa. It seemed the first witness was to just wet everybody's appetite.

Sers Osfryd and Osney speak of different incidents where Tyrion threatened Joffrey: the time when he gave the king "a lesson" in the throne room: the time he slapped the royal person after the riots: the time he suggested his nephew could learn from past, dead, and worthless kings, only to insinuate that Joffrey was no true king.

They spoke of the instance when Tyrion threatened Cersei herself, claiming that the Imp said he would find a way to dash Cersei's happiness. Of course, no mention was made of Cersei saying those exact words to  _him_ , or of how Tyrion was provoked into saying such in the first place!

It did not end there.

The Master of Whispers, one who Tyrion thought of as an ally during the past year and half, the very Varys, told of whispers he heard that Tyrion plotted to separate King Joffrey from his protection and sworn shield, Sandor Clegane. He told of Tyrion's desire that Tommen should have been born first.

It was all half-truths. He tried to deny it all, but any time he spoke out, his father and judge reprimanded him, and told him to wait his turn to present his side and witnesses. A laugh, since he had no witnesses, except for the dog supposedly loyal to the lions, and a wife that he himself still does not know the extent of her involvement.

For Sansa, it was Grand Maester Pycelle who struck the final blow against her, stating that she had stolen from his private stock. Indeed, it all started with the fool, Dontos, whose dead body remained unburied during the proceedings. His rooms were the first searched after Sandor and Sansa had returned to keep, and Sandor had claimed Dontos "traitor".

Tyrion can practically hear his teeth grinding in irritation as Pycelle informs the court that amethysts, such as can be found in Asshai were discovered in the fool's room. When prompted by Lady Olena, Pycelle talked about  _why_ the find was so important, as it was the same type of amethyst that decorated Lady Sansa Lannister's hairnet during the wedding feast.

Murmurs and gasps filled the hall, almost obliterating Pycelle's reasoning that Sansa was party to the Imp's plan, and had, in fact, carried the poison willingly to the feast. Perhaps even dropped the stone into the wine since she was so close to the dais. Then, she had run away afterwards, had she not? Were she innocent, surely she would have no cause to run away?

It is perhaps then that Tyrion questions whether or not Sansa did indeed wish to kill Joffrey. He still knows little of his wife, beyond her beauty and fear of the Lannisters, her masks still quite effective at closing off her feelings, so much as he cannot tell whether she is confused, scared, or angry at the allegations lobbed against her. Besides all that, what would have become of  _him, her husband_ , if she had been successful in her escape? Her apparent lack of care in regards to him left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Or had she been kidnapped, as the Hound suggested? To bad the king had not wanted to hear that.  _Give them a trial as man and wife. For better or for worse, right uncle? Auntie Sansa?_ The urge to slap him yet again was only checked by his father's glare.

Whatever the case, the fact that there were being tried together, and both would receive same verdict, did little to bring them closer together, and made the bitter taste all the more worse still.

But the worst, the truly heart shattering moment of the whole trial by words, was when the woman he thought he knew, who had treated him with kindness and openness, with frankness and lustiness, had been the one to twist the proverbial dagger in the back to deadly finality.

Shae. Lovely Shae. Beautiful Shae. Cunning, conniving, conceited Shae. How he should have known! All the times she beggedfor more riches,sneeredat having to be a servant, indifferentto his marriage to Sansa. It hurts, for she was the one thing that made living in the hell hole of King's Landing bearable, who always knew what to do to soothe his body and soul, who always knew what to say to make him feel worthy of existing.

_My giant of a Lannister._

Those very words are turned against him. Twisted, ripped from his guts, a private adulation turned to public scorn: how he had forced her to say those words, only after forcing her to do "unspeakable" acts, she should only be so glad to service the future king after Joffrey's, Cersei's, and eventually Tommen's, deaths: or so Shae told the sympathetic crowd. There was not a man or woman left in the hall who was not tearing up for her and laughing at him; except his father, and that hardly bode well for anyone, let alone his son.

It infuriates him, more then anything else. He, the laughingstock of the capital, after he had  _saved_ these worthless people! He should have let them  _burn!_ He turns to his wife, Sansa, who finally looks at him with emotion, looks at him with pity. As if she could possibly know what it was to love, and have it turn to a dagger in the heart.

Joffrey. Gods, he wishes he  _had_ poisoned his nephew! And that it had been successful! There was no justice here.

He says as much, then demands that the gods judge him, that a trial by combat save or condemn him, and his wife, as the gods will.

As Tyrion had known it would happen, King Joffrey demands Ser Gregor to fight for the crown, he who had come back to the capital the night previous. No doubt at Cersei's suggestion, Tyrion knows.

Before Tywin can ask Tyrion for his champion, before his true champion has a chance to go through with their hidden plan, a truly shocking thing occurs.

"I will stand against my  _brother_."

Sansa closes her eyes briefly, the only betrayal of her feelings of both relief and fear at hearing that her shield would now defend her once again.

All other eyes turn towards Sandor after he volunteered his sword for the trial. Joffrey wears the most surprise, mouth opening and eyes a faint whisper of fear. As if Sandor  _really was_  his pet, his dog, and now the pet had chosen another to heed instead: he fully coming to realize that he did not do enough to appreciate what he has, or had.

It is Cersei who speaks, though, "You would defend my brother, after what he has  _done_?" And Tyrion smirks at her reaction. Though he is surprised himself at the Hound volunteering his sword, he is pleased for the champion, better then his original plan. Though Tyrion knows he has his wife to thank for it, the younger Clegane's words support Tyrion's theory that he is not a complete air-headed lovesick fool

Sandor shakes his head at the former Queen Regent, "I only wish to fight the whoreson that is my brother. Should the Imp benefit as a result, so be it." He shrugs his nonchalance on the matter.

Lord Tywin checks his fury, barely, calling a close to court and all but spitting to get the trial done quickly. It was to take place on the morrow, without delay.

Dismissed, Sansa seeks Sandor to request his escort, which he readily gives with a smile, so unfamiliar on his face, yet at once comforting to her. Tyrion waddles after, for his tower cell is close to her rooms.

When they reach the door to her rooms, she turns to the Hound, and politely thanks him for offering to defend her honor.

His eyes, they are sad and full of an unnamable anguish, yet it is his words that, though they are a lie, visibly upsets his wife: "I only do this to fight my brother. Should you benefit as a result, so be it." Without anything more, he stalks away, Tyrion and Addam close behind.

Alone again within his tower cell, Tyrion ponders the Hound's rude behavior to the woman Tyrion thought the man was enamored with. Shaking his head, he figures if they all live to see another day, he would ask him, but for now, wine will do.

The words, twice spoken, do not fade. Sandor must have known of ears within the walls, the vindictiveness of the Lannisters, for by the hour of the trial, no servant, page, knight, lady, or lord believed that Sandor was truly defending Sansa or Tyrion, so much as he was there to get the chance to kill Gregor.


	6. Sansa's Favor

"What are you doing here, my lady?" Sandor asks Sansa as she stands before his rooms, though his eyes looks towards the Lannister guards behind her.

It was the eve of the fight; Ser Gregor went to the Sept in a mockery of prayer for the coming trial by combat, while Sandor had chosen to spend his time honing his sword and cleaning his armor; relaxing within the monotony of the motions.

"I have come to give you a favor. For tomorrow, that is." And she presents him with a crystal flagon of a fine Dornish Sour, probably swiped from Lord Tyrion's private stock. Sandor smirks, taking it from Sansa, before letting her in his rooms, closing his door in the face of the guards.

She looks around, noticing its sparseness, but cleanliness, before turning again to Sandor, who was placing her favor upon his sparse desk. "I understand you do this to... to..." but she cannot go further on that vein; she still does not know _why_ her shield should despise her husband, but she knows that he does. For him to choose kinslaying above his hatred for Tyrion... it was confusing!

She sighs, not completing that sentence, "I know you do not do it for me, but I wanted to thank you anyway."

"Fuck, Little Bird." he whispers. And he just crushes her to him, hands hot on her hips, evidence of his arousal clear, and mouth claiming hers, capturing her gasp and turning it to a moan. He releases her mouth, to lay his forehead upon hers, "Fuck the rest," he says, a ghost of Blackwater, "I do it for you."

She had been tightly wound since being accused; nay, since before that. Sandor had been her shield since before she knew, almost the moment he first met her, and the thought of losing him now felt like an injustice to her, just as she had started to truly appreciate him.

She fought long and hard to fight the rising feelings within her, but the truth was, she could not imagine ever being safe again without his presence. She could not imagine ever feeling protected if he were not near. She could not imagine the thought of loosing herself within love, unless she lost it to someone who would break her fall, as she now knew Sandor was capable of. Sandor would tease her, yes, would mock her and scold her, but always for her benefit, she knows now. She's known since the Blackwater of his intentions. She's felt rising feelings of her own at her wedding to another man; that this man, the faithful Hound, was someone she'd rather be tied to. And since Joffrey's wedding and her nightmarish trial, she has felt intermittent needs for comfort and kisses, from _him_ , Sandor, and it scares her more than anything _._

That he is fighting the trial for her, even though she always knew on some level, finally broke her mask of control when he revealed aloud for true.

She sobs, once, before he claims her lips again, winding his arms around her in a crushing hug, one she gladly returns.

He only breaks away to pick her up, bringing her to his bed and laying them both upon it; "Let me have you." he whispers, digging his nose into her neck, kissing her there while a hand spans her stomach. He distracts her with such, and she barely can stay coherent, let alone think of _why_ she would refuse such a wonderful man.

She yelps when he pulls at a breast, even over the layers of her clothing, and a spike of lust rolls through her. When he thrusts his hips against hers, though, fear again grips her. "I... I can't!" She whispers. Sandor stops his ministrations, but does not move away. Tears pool, again, and she whispers her apologies, a cadence that repeats itself while Sandor lays there, still and silent.

"Tell me why." He eventually growls. "I'm a dead man. I've protected you, you return my feelings, damned gods know why, and you come here, the night before I die, _alone_ and giving me a _favor_ , and you won't let me have you...to _fuck_ you..." he growls again, whispering, "you owe me an explanation."

"None of this is right!" She cries into his chest, hoping the sound goes no further then the door. "You are not my husband." She looks up towards him, at once wanting to take the sting from her words, "I want you, and my heart wants you. But...I fear the repercussions if we were to follow through... It would cause irreparable damage; everybody knows Tyrion has not bedded me yet. And beyond that...I can't! I cannot reconcile my heart with my head."

She can see the anger in his eyes, but can see his understanding as well. He is unwilling to back down, but still says or does nothing to refute her. Finally, he lays his head in the crook of her neck, and grabs at her wrist, bringing her hand to his hard cock, confined dangerously beneath his breeches.

"Feel this?" He asks, guiding her hand over his length, causing her to blush in girlish embarrassment and shame. "This is your doing, girl." He growls, before releasing her with a groan, turning to lay on his back.

"Girl": he hadn't called her "Little Bird." It stings, though it is true, she has barely flowered, her curves are still developing, and she still wishes she had guidance for what to do, to tell her it was right to lust after a man of her heart, instead of the man she was lawfully tied to.

She wishes she could consult her Septa, to know why the gods, of any creed, held such punishments about broken marriage when it was so hard to find love within the rigid parameters of society. She wants to ask about why there are so many mistresses and cuckolds when everyone knows about the special place in the seven hells for faithlessness. Her own father, the very image of honor, had strayed at one point. Why, oh why! Were the gods content to throw children where their parents had once traveled?! It had always rankled her to think on what her father had done, and she tried to be more understanding towards both him and her mother but failing; and yet now the situation is upon her! She was so comfortable with what she knew, the idea of her guardians being wrong just would not take root in her head, never before had she thought to own an opinion not shaped by others...

Her family is nowhere near, and all she has is the man, right or wrong, of her desires. Perhaps she cannot yet follow through with the bedding, but she still wants to show him her affection before it might be too late...

She places a hand on his abdomen, leaning over him to kiss his lips. He is unresponsive at first, but the longer she pecks at him, and the more she caresses his stomach, the more he gives back to her. He had already un-tucked his shirt earlier for the night, so she easily slips her hand underneath. He groans at the feel of her silken hands upon his leathery skin, and releases her lips.

He stares at her, watches her face as she explores his body. She combs through his chest hair, traces some of his scars, and follows the contours of his muscles. She smiles the whole time, small and sad, and she can tell he is relieved, somewhat, that she truly did not want to deny him.

He brings a hand to her head to cup her cheek in comfort. She hopes there will be plenty of times for him to comfort her in the future; right now, though, this is about Sandor, and letting him know of her love, for there are no other words to describe her feelings... He threads his fingers through her hair as she leans down to kiss him again, lingering sweetly as they explore their respective tastes: tart and hot.

His hand travels her side, brushing a breast, spanning her waist, and settling at her hips, caressing them possessively and kneading with a strength that was evident, but muted. He pulls her close, and her body willingly leans closer: a dainty leg between two powerful thighs and brushing against his arousal, breasts smashed against him, a willowy arm gently laid across his marred chest. Her head falls to kiss the hollow of his throat, before laying down, a cheek upon his heart, hearing its thump beneath three stitched dogs.

She allows him to caress her body, enjoying the adoration he gives now that he holds himself from ravishing her.

He kisses her crown, the hand moving towards her ass to fondle, while the one the pillows her head seizes her in almost desperation. "Sing for me." He rasps as he starts to lean towards her. "Won't you sing for me, pretty bird?" He whispers into her neck, almost pleadingly. "Sing for my life, why don't you." And he gently scrapes her neck with his teeth.

She moans as heat suffuses through her, rubbing her core upon his leg and his manhood upon her's, only much later coming to realize that that moan (and more of its ilk) was exactly what he meant. However, as the moan dies out, she kisses his chest again, before grabbing the first song that filters through her muddled brain and humming the first few bars.

Once he realizes that she's humming a song, his wandering hands slow down. Eventually they lose their intensity and settle around her protectively, guarding her from being lost to the seas of time. She will have to leave soon, it is almost past the hour of the wolf! But before the hour of the nightingale comes again, she would make sure he was truly loved. If not in body, with the soul: she wonders if he had truly ever known such a love that didn't involve pure lust...

When her hums turn to words, starting the refrain of the Mother's Hymn, she finds it appropriate, if not perfect. Tears prick her eyes as she realizes the she wants to soothe Sandor's rage more then she wants to fuel it. Florian and Jonqiel: the Bear and the Maiden Fair: the Warrior's Hymn, the Stranger's... even the Maiden's, all were false towards her feelings towards Sandor. There will come a time to give in, but it is not now. Even if he should die tomorrow, she would not regret her innocence. She was not here to assure he won, but to let him know of her feelings, and in that, she accomplished her goal.

As the song died out and the quiet of the night envelope them again, she spares not a tear upon his tunic. He must feel them, for at once he brings his free hand to her chin, moving her face to look at him, and she sees _his_ tears, so rare and so few, falling down his own face.

His eyes are hard, as they usually are, but they lack the usual hate and lusts. They shine with emotion, fervor, and if she reads him right...

"I love you." she whispers.

His eyes close in anguish, more tears spilling down, before they opens again and he claims her lips once more.

All too soon, the guard knocks upon the door. They escort the Lady Sansa back to her rooms, with nary a hair out of place, nor a wet trail upon her cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SOOO excited to post the fight (I know, how can I be more excited then those waiting to read it?), but that is two chapters away! ... Next week will be "Cersei's Favor" (feast you mind on that thought!), and then it will be the "Trial by Combat". Fun times. The reason I say this? To tell you that after the fight, I won't post another chapter until the new year. Sorry!
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter (I know you did, leave a note...pwetty pwease?) and here's a preview for next week.
> 
> "The Queen Regent came to his rooms hours after Sansa had left; dawn had come and gone, and it was mere hours before the trial by combat would commence. From one of her hands dangles a wine skin, from the other dangles a vague promise: loose, yield or die, and she'd make his sacrifice quite worthwhile. "


	7. Cersei's Favor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going up tomorrow... but the weather outside is frightful, and the fire inside is.. no wait a minute... and the computer inside is so delightful, so I'm posting this chapter early. Ish.
> 
> I've never written a bitchy villain before... I've written a sympathetic Cersei once, and I just gotta say, this was a whole lot more fun to write! It's liberating writing a villain! If you've never written from a villain's POV, do it, at least once! Hope you all enjoy it too.

"I need you to do me a favor." the Lioness purrs, trailing a finger down the Hound's chiseled chest, looking at him like a piece of meat while never making eye contact. She never did throughout the years, always making sure to display the fact that he was beneath her notice, beneath her contempt: always with the high chin, and cold eyes anywhere but on his; beneath her yes, but still usable.

The Queen Regent came to his rooms hours after Sansa had left; dawn had come and gone, and it was mere hours before the trial by combat would commence. From one of her hands she dangles a wine skin, from the other dangles a vague promise: loose, yield or die, and she'd make his sacrifice quite worthwhile.

Cersei was naturally impeccably dressed with rich cloths of crimson and gold, while he, abnormally, had not truly readied for the day. He had spent the hour of the Nightingale thinking of the Little Bird, and of her "favor". Sansa's proffered flagon of wine still lay somewhere in his room, unopened. He had only just grudgingly got out of his bed and put on a pair of breeches before having to open his door again, to another woman with a "favor".

The lioness continues to trace his bare chest while pleading her case. "My brother, he cannot be declared innocent. He is an abomination, would you not agree? He has been the fool in my family all his life, and has sent Myrcella,  _my daughter_ , to Dorne! If let to his ways, he'd have all my family spread to the winds, and take Casterly Rock for himself!" She hisses the final word.

She takes a calming breath before continuing, "He has not been kind to you either. After all, look at what happened to your sister?  _And_  he sent you to fight within the fires, while he commanded from behind the walls, safe and cool." Her hand goes further south, and he finds it hard to concentrate. He is a man, after all, little used to human contact of any kind. And what the Little Bird had started was seemingly not finished.

The lioness purrs in confidence, thinking she has the upper hand. It irks him, her cool confidence as the cat with the cream, the bird in its mouth,  _his_ Little Bird, and he knew her cruelty had no bounds. He snatches her wrist, causing her to gasp in pain, "I don't give a fuck about  _your_  brother. This is about  _my_ brother, Gregor," he lies, "and I aim to see him dead, before I die."

Ignoring the pain, Cersei counters, "Think about it," she coos, wiggling her hand from his, "If you do not yield the fight, I will have you stripped of your cloak, your rank, and have you banished from King's Landing." She walks around him, trailing her hands over his collarbone, around to his shoulder blades, then up to his shoulders, finally kneading them quite deliciously as she had experimented on cousin Lancel; Sandor is surprised at how good it feels. She leans up to whisper in his good ear, "Yield, and I will yield." And she licks his whole ear, before gently biting it.

Sandor says nothing, disgusted by the woman but unable to refuse the queen, yet: her offer is not worth Sansa's life, but her ministrations cause his body to react against his will. As usual within the presence of a conniving woman or whore out for his money, he gets angry.

Cersei takes his silence for hesitation. She walks around him again, trailing cool hands on his shoulders, before leaning in to kiss him by way of promising more. She's shocked when he turns his head, giving her his burns which she narrowly avoids grazing.

Staring at his corded neck, Cersei takes a moment to wonder at his game. He does nothing to refute her, or to acquiesce. Thinking to entice him some more, she leans in again to kiss at his neck, just below his scars, trailing her hands down his hairy chest. His own paws grasp her waist, bringing her stomach against his hardness, grunting his appreciation when she bites him.

Smirking, she leans back from him, admiring his muscles that were more defined then Robert ever hoped to be, yet not as lean and beautiful as Jaime. "You yield, I yield." She states again, feeling that bedding the Hound wouldn't be so bad after having felt his hardness against her, feeling her own lusts spiking in reciprocation. "Afterwards, I might even reward you with a wife. You would like that, would you not?"

She's shocked when he shoves her against the wall, leaning in smother her in his shadow. Quickly, she schools herself to be pliant, accepting, willing... leaning her head back to bare her neck and arching her breasts to please him; lessons learned from bedding the coarse Kettleback brothers.

He thrusts his hips against her, harshly, almost like he wanted to hurt her, a large paw rising to grip her neck just shy of being painful. "Yes." she breaths, suffocating but able to say that much. Part of her wonders if he is doing this on purpose, before she remembers that this beast, her Hound, was unable to think, let alone be gentle, so she would have to endure. Perhaps it would  _not_ be as good as his size promised... but Robert was the same, she was used to it.

"Yes." she repeats, "You want this," she moans for effect, "I want this too." she lies. She grabs at his hand that has been bruising her breast, moving it to her mouth and sucking at a digit, before releasing it slowly from her cherry red, plump lips. "Just imagine the pleasure we can have... later, after my brother and his annoying wife's demise."

He stills for a moment, and she wonders what she said wrong. Then:" You have no intention of giving yourself to me, do you?" he all but growls. Though she is already against the wall, he pushes her harshly, causing her head to bounce against the hard stones, and he distances himself from the queen; "You can take your offer, and shove it! This is not the first time you've done this, isn't it? How many other men have you done such? Don't lie, I can tell! "

Chin high, wildfire eyes glaring over his shoulder, she hisses that he cannot treat the queen in such a manner.

"And you can no longer treat me like a dog." He replies, anger lacing every word. "I am done with you Lannisters. Win or die, I leave King's Landing, and you can find another dog to do your bidding, to mount you like the bitch you are!"

Stunned, Cersei looks to Sandor for the first time ever, seeing in his eyes what she has never noticed before: his anger, fury, and danger (and if she cared enough, would have seen hurt too). It scares her, more then his scars, or imposing figure, or the fact that they are in his room,  _his_ territory.

"Have it your way," She hisses, able to hide behind her own brand of anger, but still wishes to get away as quickly as possible, "You can forget about any favors the Lannisters have bestowed upon you, or ever will!" And she storms away.

She hears him laughing as she goes down the hall, but inside her there is a malicious voice that whispers,  _We'll see who has the last laugh_!

Back in his room, Sandor throws the cheap wineskin that Cersei offered into the fire. While the leather crackles and burns, he takes up Sansa's favor, noticing for the first time the blue ribbon tied around the flagon's neck. Thoughts of Cersei fading away, he smiles at the ribbon, tracing the silken strand between two coarse fingers. Had Sansa not been there first, he imagines his resolve to refute Cersei would have been weaker.

Irritation ebbing away, happy that he refused the queen and was able to stay true on his course, he opened the crystal flagon, sniffing at the rich contents that obviously belong to Tyrion's private stock, and remembered that he is to defend the Imp as well.  _No matter_ , he though,  _for Sansa is more important than the half-man right now._

All of a sudden, the fire roars to life, turning a sickly shade of purple. Stunned, he watches the purple flames dance and climb upon the fuel that was Cersei's wine, before they calm and turn into regular orange flames.

He takes a swig of the Dornish wine, fueling his own anger that the queen thought to  _poison_  himwith wine, after he had saved her worthless son's life from the same thing. She must have known he would not have helped her, or had thought to have a secondary plan. He can only be thankful that he had another's favor to drink, or else he might have drunk of Cersei's just for spite. There is nothing to do now but win, and it strengthens his resolve to defend Sansa, the only woman (since his sister) to have come to him for more then just his sword. Though still young and naive, she is far more worthy then the jaded hag that had just left his room.

He remembers his impatience towards Sansa earlier, and cringes. Better for her to give up her innocence when happy and comfortable, and not to suit his needs, or hers. By comparison with recent events, Sansa had given him all that she could, and it was enough. More then enough: his heart swells in remembrance.

Remembering that Sansa had always reached out to his burns, even before he had gained her trust and friendship, and it was always to  _comfort_ him, never in any sort of show of favoritism or to take something of him. The first time he had mockingly called her a Little Bird, was the first time she had touched his scarred cheek:  _he is no true knight._  Aye, even then, she started to see his own worth, little as it seemed. And while Cersei would probably give more then Sansa was comfortable with, Cersei's touch held less affection then Sansa's. Gods, Sansa had even kissed his burns!

Sansa might still be a girl, barely a woman, and she has fears on such carnal deeds, and fears of the repercussions. However, the Little Bird  _wants_  him, wants _him_ ; that is not a lie. He would question why she likes him so, but if he is to die before tomorrow dawns, such questions are pointless today. He does not yet know of her sweet honey; but her silken hands, her Maiden kisses soothing his angry burns and furious nature, those are far better then the Crone's useless gifts.

Finally dressed, armored, and armed, Sandor takes a final look at Sansa's favor, before tucking her blue ribbon underneath his chain mail and breastplate, just above the three stitched dogs and his heart.


	8. Trial by Combat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fighting scenes? Not my forte... be gentle. Other then that... enjoy! This will be the last chapter until after the new year. *hugs and confetti*

When Sandor stepped into the outer ward, he was greeted with a view of hundreds, almost thousands, of people crammed into the area, waiting with morbid fascination for the outcome of the fight. Sneering at the crowd, he walked where those whom he is defending stood. His eyes never reached them, though; he continually looked around the yard, glaring at those who were sitting on chairs or barrels, as if at yet another entertaining tilt. He growled at the parents and their children, as if this was a regular family event; those stupid rats.

When he stood at his spot beside the imp and his wife, he then stared into the eyes of death, and promised vengeance.

His brother, Ser Gregor Clegane the Mountain, stood across the ward, dressed in their colors of bright yellow and pitch black, displaying their three faithful hounds, and armored head to toe while Sandor declined wearing all his armor, and choose not to wear any surcoat. His shield was plain wood, while Gregor had painted his with the Faith of the Seven's pointed star... probably at the insistence of Cersei.

All the old hate and rage flared within Sandor, at once causing him to pace in spot, waiting, eager for damn thing to start; it was all he could do to not forget Sansa, even as she a few feet away from him. In a way, it was good he became rabid again, for no one was supposed to know of his true allegiance.

Next to Gregor stood a diminutive looking Cersei, who only had an arched eyebrow to acknowledge Sandor's apparent good health.

In front of the Tower of the Hand there was erected a temporary platform, upon which the judges of Tyrion and Sansa's trial were currently walking towards. They entered the area behind Sandor, but he did not look towards them. He sniffed in acknowledgment of Lord Mace Tyrell's flowery smell, watched through the corner of his eye as Lord Hand Tywin walked by, but was momentarily surprised when the third judge, Prince Oberyn Martell, stepped around to stand in front of him.

Ignoring Sandor's glare, the Snake tells the Hound, "If there was anybody I loathed more than your brother, it is you."

Sandor barks a laugh, "Do you take me for him? I only share a name with him, don't put his shit at my door."

"Your family works for the Lannisters, he killed my sister under orders, raped her and killed her children; the Lannisters are responsible, _you_ are responsible."

"Fuck you. I am not my brother's keeper." He snarls, raising his voice in ire as he asks, "He killed your sister? Tell me, who hasn't lost a sister to that monster?"

There is a momentary silence, before Oberyn continues, "So it is true." He muses, "We both have suffered his existence. Perhaps, if you live and he dies, I will consider the debt paid, and seek out the death of 'Clegane' no longer." And he holds out his hand towards Sandor.

Sandor spits into Oberyn's palm, before glancing away from the Dornish Prince. Far from being insulted, Oberyn laughs his own humor, and saunters away to the platform.

While the High Septon drones on, seeking the guidance from the gods, Tyrion whispers some final words to Sandor, "You really should not have insulted the Dornish Prince, we will need allies wherever we can get them after this, should you win."

"Shut up, dwarf." is Sandor's only reply. From his peripheral vision, he notices the Little Bird fluttering her hands to her face, but he does not look towards her, only takes a measure of peace from her presence, feeling the weight of her ribbon over his heart.

When the Septon finally finished his ungodly long prayers, Tywin gestures for the combat to begin.

The two brothers advance towards each other. For a short while, they only circle each other, testing their guards and strategy with half-hearted thrusts.

Gregor is the first to grow impatient, and lunges with a sure strike that Sandor anticipates, and parries. The fight then starts for true.

They trade blow for blow, so evenly matched are they. Both wielded strength, height, and breath; their strategies are similar, their stances are mirror like, they could have been twins but for their physical differences. Only Sandor could have fought Gregor using Gregor's own fighting style. Anyone else who tried to match strength for strength would have been dead within the first few blows.

And where Gregor had more strength and reach, Sandor had more agility; it seemed as if the two advantages cancelled each other out.

The crowd was eager for a blood bath. They cheered the fight on, not caring in the least why the champions fought. Both monsters were jeered, and most spectators hoped both would die: hoping the gods would find justice for their burned homes, their murdered children, and their degraded livelihoods. It mattered not to them about the spoiled girl and her demon monkey of a husband who were truly affected by the outcome, and it mattered not that the only real Clegane monster was one brother, not two.

All at once, that changed. Gregor grew impatient, and stumbled. He growled at the crowed he knocked into, the crowd that had steadily been foolishly inching closer to the action, and swung his great sword to vent his frustration. Before he hit the poor bystander, a stable boy for the royal steeds, Sandor's sword glanced the blow aside, saving the life of the unsuspecting urchin. All of a sudden, the crowd remembered how the Hound had saved the Knight of Flowers once, and in praise they cheered out "Hound!"

It was small, but it was a start.

Sandor had overstepped his guard to parry Gregor's blow however, and Gregor took advantage by thrusting a spare dagger from his belt, to his brother's gut. His aim was off, and the steel ran through Sandor's thigh instead. The Mountain had lost his shield in maneuvering so, but little did he care for defense. The Hound staggered, retreated, but maintained his stance and shield.

Pressing the advantage, Gregor pounded upon his brother, hacking at the shield and driving the runt back. After a particularly nasty swing, Sandor fell upon his good knee, his shield broke and fell away, and all that was left was a drooping sword.

Gregor swung his sword up, but before he delivered the kill, he stopped. All around him he heard them yelling; the gnats and peasants and swine, all screamed in horror and pleading manner. They yelled "No!". they screamed, "It can't be!"

Gregor never had much of a fan base, nor did he ever need or want one, but this was the first time the little people had actively chose his brother over him, and had actually dared to rail against him! It hurt, his head pounded at the annoying noise; he told them, he screamed at them, to shut up, but the crowd just jeered at him all the more.

It was enough of a distraction. Sandor, while Gregor hesitated, took the dagger out of his thigh, and stood upright. And while Gregor could care little for the crowd's screams, they invigorated Sandor. Later, he would become a surely monster for the masses again. Just now, he was a champion for them: the little brother beating the elder, the runt overtaking the bully, the abused defeating the abuser.

When the crowd noticed the Hound restored, and charging the Mountain again, they erupted in cheers. Sandor felt the adrenaline renewed, coursing through him, his anger fueled by frustration, and elation bubbling up underneath. The people chose him, the Little Bird had chosen him, and they depended on him like only one other before.

He felt a surge of awareness: he would win. He would avenge his sister, he would protect his bird; all at once, he would be the victor. He knew it.

In a pause between their blows, he ripped his dog's helm off, part in frustration, part because it was getting too hot. When the crowd saw his angry snarling face, instead of his angry snarling helm, they cheered even more wildly.

At every "Hound" the crowed was now chanting, Sandor pounded away at his brother. Gregor never strayed from fury and mindless cruelty, but now he was confused. How dare the people go against him? Why couldn't they shut up!?

At every turn was his brother, always there, always ready to hack at him. "Hound!" the crowd chanted. At every turn, there was a face jeering him, yelling "Hound!". They were not afraid of him anymore. Instead of scared faces, pleading for life or mercy, they judge him and find him wanting. They curse him, they praise his brother with "HOUND!", they stare at him eye to eye, and spit. It was as if a floodgate of hate was finally released, opened by the hands of his brother, "HOUND!", and they no longer felt any trepidation in letting the Mountain know he was abhorred.

It stunned him, probably the first time in his life he had been stunned. Had he lived, he probably would not have cared, and would have overcome his surprise and return to a life of cruelty, quiet easily.

As it was, the people had spoken "HOUND!", to say nothing of the Gods' justice, and the Hound slew the Mountain. Never had the Red Keep heard such a cheer that had exploded as when Sandor's sword stuck out from Ser Gregor's visor.


	9. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on "Consumed by Your Presence": 
> 
> Tyrion hangs his head in anguish, placing that on the door as well. How their roles have reversed, his and Clegane's. It used to be that he, Tyrion, had the affection of someone worth something to Sandor. Tyrion, having done very little to earn Clegane's trust in the first place, had made it worse when he lost that which they both loved. If loved for different reasons...

**HUSBAND/WIFE**

Sandor yanks his sword that sticks from out of his brother's helmet, and then stumbles around, turning to face where the Little Bird stands. He never gets that far, the adrenaline wearing off and the blood loss from his thigh wound confounding him, till he falls to the ground, passing out.

Lord Hand Tywin is the first to react, "Take Sandor to the cells. Take my son and his _wife_ to the gates, and throw them out!" He turns to the Dornish prince, but before he can say anything else, he is interrupted.

"Belay that order." A whinny voice states. Furious, Tywin turns around and seethes at his grandson, the King Joffrey, who stands from his own chair, his own fury coming through. It makes him look like a spoiled brat, yet there is something there that has never been there before, a _presence_ , an indescribable quality of authority that makes King Joffrey worth listening to.

It could just be that all the guards in the area listened to him, first and foremost, and anything Tywin would say contrary would be ignored. How it rankles him.

Never taking his eyes off his grandfather, Joffrey orders the guards in a loud voice, to be heard over the still cheering multitudes, "Take the champion to the rooms next to mine, and bring the maester there swiftly.

"Take my uncle and aunt to their rooms, but place a guard outside for now." He finally looks away from Tywin, addressing the Dorninsh Prince himself, but anything he says is lost to Tyrion as he and his wife are ushered back into the Keep. Sansa is physically pulled, so stunned is she at Sandor's win, and subtly worried over his condition, while Tyrion himself is still a little awed that he has been twice saved by combated trials.

Once inside the Keep, within Tyrion's rooms, he and Sansa are left alone together for the first time since before Joffrey's wedding. At first, Tyrion is stunned to silence at seeing his young wife standing by the window awash with golden sunlight, a beautiful vision of purity. He admires her for a moment, before he notices that despite her mask, she trembles, unable to completely hide her emotions. He goes to her. Grabbing at her hands that are folded tightly in front of her, he takes one and squeezes it in comfort. "The Hound," he states, "may yet live, my lady."

Sansa turns towards Tyrion, looking down at him, and he watches in some sort of fascination as her cold demeanor melts into worry, her brows furrowing in pain and cold eyes becoming glassy with sadness. Her lower lip starts to trembles, before she herself crumples to the ground, leaning towards Tyrion in a desperate attempt to find comfort.

Without delay he wraps his arms around her, leaning his cheek upon her brow. He has not hesitated to comfort her such, yet still his mind is playing catch up, trying to recall when he may have gained her trust. Or wondering if she is just that desperate, that this might yet be a cruel jape.

Foregoing such questions, he just rubs her back, saying again, "Clegane is a tough bastard, and he will not leave you now, especially after saving you in such a manner."

"I feared for his life." She whispers, hiccups punctuating her speech, "I so wanted him to win, but I could not stop the fear that he would die. I could not bare it if he had left this world, he was all that I have left." She sniffs, before continuing, her crying silent, yet wracking her body in tremors, "And now he has won, yet I still must wonder at his fate!"

Weathering her shuddering shoulders, Tyrion remains silent. He had known of Sandor's affections for Sansa, but did not know the reverse was true till just now. He had strong suspicions, but had wondered if it was idle fancy, or a woman using an advantage. But she had said she would miss him for his presence, sullen and all, and not that she feared for her own life should he fail. Perhaps, for Sansa, death was not the worst thing anymore.

He wished he had some of her bravery.

"Hush now," he says, "You still have me, your husband, and I will not leave you stranded."

At that, she leans away. Not harshly, but still, it stings. She wipes her eyes with her sleeves, not caring for the silk, and replies, "Of course. Forgive me, husband."

Sighing, Tyrion moves so that he is standing directly before her crumpled form, and reaches for her still trembling chin to raise her sight to him, "You misunderstand me, wife. Would that I had your love..." Sighing, he shrugs his shoulders, "But you have my friendship. And sometimes, that is better."

It takes a few seconds, but when she understands, she smiles tremulously, and tears finally stop falling. "I believe you," she whispers. "I have since the trial, you know."

"Indeed now, my lady? How so?"

"You and I, we have both suffered from love." Tyrion nods his understanding, but it is the next statement that moves him, "That was truly a despicable thing for Shae to do. I had trusted her, once, more then you, when the reverse should have been the case."

"Yes." he whispers. "She did not deserve our trust."

There is a hesitation, before Sansa innocently asks, "Did you love her?"

Sighing, Tyrion moves away, sitting on a chair and rubbing his sore thighs, a memory of another woman doing the same cropping up seemingly from nowhere. "Yes." he replies, "I loved Shae. But even then it was not the strongest I have felt. Just... a companionable love, a lonely love."

Sansa looks at him with confusion, gets up from the floor only to sit again, at Tyrion's feet. She places her hands on one of his thighs, and her chin upon her hands. "What do you mean?"

Closing his eyes in anguish, he replies, "I had loved once before. A beautiful maiden was she, as young and innocent as you are, and I was younger yet." And he opens his eyes to look at his wife. "Shae filled a hole in my heart, but she did not fill it completely."

"Who was this other woman?"

Tyrion does not reply right away, but looks off to the distance. "Her name was Tysha. Long dark hair that shined despite its darkness, with blue eyes you could drown in, and so I had… so long ago. She was kindness personified, had the most beautiful laugh, and quite the unique way of looking at life. I never knew who she was for true until it was too late; I did not care, so much I loved her." He looks to Sansa again, "I sometimes wondered if she ever noticed I was dwarf, so much she loved me."

"What happened to her, to Tysha?" Sansa asks, sounding out the new name, eyes big and unassuming.

And while he has successfully distracted Sansa, it is now his turn for tears falling down his cheeks, and he lets them, safe for the moment in the presence of his wife and new friend. "I lost her." Is all he is willing to say. "No more questions, my lady, please."

Looking down, cheeks blushing in embarrassment of perhaps overstepping her bounds of their new found trust, Sansa utters, "I am sorry my lord."

He waves off her apology, getting up from the chair and giving Sansa a hand to help her up, "No need to be sorry, wife, I am just too bitter to talk much about Tysha right now." He releases her hand and steps back. "I should say I am sorry for burdening you with my woes, when you have more then enough of your own."

Nodding, Sansa looks to the ground, unsure of how to proceed. Patiently, Tyrion waits for her to mention something about parting to change or bathe, but she surprises him yet again. "Perhaps," she starts, then hesitates, shuffling closer to him and gesturing for his hand with hers, which he readily grabs once more, "You and I should start calling each other by our given names. You once tried before, and I was not ready." She looks towards his face again, "I am ready now."

He replies, smiling, "How about some lunch, Sansa?"

* * *

**FATHER/SON**

Near the end of their relatively pleasant lunch of fruits, cheeses, breads, and idle childhood reminiscing, a guard opens their door to announce the presence of the Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister.

The imposing lord walks in stiff but sure, hands clasped behind his back, eyes narrowed and looking down his upturned nose, and commands one of the men to escort Lady Sansa away, wherever she wished.

Once the door closes behind Sansa asking the guard to visit her champion, father and son regard each other at an impasse. Finally, Tyrion remarks, "You would have beheaded me, without remorse, as if I were not your son."

Tywin sighs, looking to the side and sneering at the disarray of Tyrion's rooms. "You are no son of mine, you lecherous fool." Moving to a desk near the windows, he seats himself there and whips out a scroll from behind his back. He makes the motions to write, all the while acting as if Tyrion was hardly worth noting. "You have besmirched this family's name one too many times, and, save for possibly Jamie for some unfathomable reason, you would not have been missed."

Tyrion waddles to the desk, thrusting a finger into the air for emphasis, "Everything I have ever done, I have done for _this family_!"

Unimpressed, Tywin scratches out a few more words, before continuing, "And what, pray tell, does threatening your nephew and king, embarrassing your sister and regent, making a mockery of the taxation system," and he looks to Tyrion for final emphasis, "or fucking whores have to do with upholding the name of 'Lannister'?" He goes back to writing.

"Joffrey and Cersei are idiots. They hardly need to be coddled with sweet words or kind gestures to make them good rulers; they needed, they _need_ , a firm hand."

Tywin dryly replies, "And what am I, if not a firm 'hand'? Besides, Queen Margaery would seem to prove the reverse. Just this past month alone has she gotten Joffrey to win a few hearts of the peasants with his good deeds, all by coddling her husband and king."

Tyrion laughs humorously, "Well, father, if all I had to do was whip out my cock and fuck my nephew and sister into submission, I would have done it ages ago!" Ignoring Tywin's furious glare, Tyrion continues, "Oh, wait, I'm sorry, that's _Jamie's_ job! Gods know how well _that_ turned out!"

Jumping from the desk and slamming his hand, Tywin shouts, "ENOUGH!" Panting, he glares wildly at Tyrion for a few beats, but ultimately, he calms down again. Straightening himself again, he brushes off imaginary dust from his fine doublet and repeats, "Enough. I am not here to talk about your actions and my own, only to tell you what the Small Counsel has decided a few hours ago while you were busy befriending you wife."

"Can't have a family without the love, father." Tyrion quips.

Tywin's response leaves Tyrion cold, "You killed the only love that had ever existed within my family." A silence settles as still as the grave, enormous in the implications, yet brief as a beheading.

Resuming, Tywin walks around the desk again, rolling up the scroll he had just written, and stalks over to his dwarf son. When he towers over Tryion, he looks down with nary a recognition in his eyes, "You are no longer Master of Coin, whose position has been offered and accepted by the visiting Prince of Dorne, Oberyn Martell."

"I am sure Mace Tyrell will be thrilled with that. Are you so sure you want a snake so close to your person? Never mind, I think it's brilliant!"

Ignoring Tyrion's interruption, Tywin goes on, "Nor are you in line to inherit Casterly Rock. However, you will go and manage things for your second son. Your first, as originally planned, will give us Winterfell." He hands Tyrion the scroll, "This is my message to the steward about your appointment as a stud to a brood mare."

Then Tywin leans closer to Tyrion, "If you do not impregnate Sansa within a year of your arrival to Casterly Rock, I will have her raped by our cousins, privately and hidden, but you will know. The process will repeat, until you or one of our cousins successfully impregnate the northern wolf." He leans up again, "Get busy, or you will have another whore for a wife on your conscious then just some peasant orphan who learned her place. Is that understood?"

Undaunted by his father's shadow, Tyrion asks, "Why don't you just give me my peasant orphan, as you so eloquently call my first wife, back to me?"

Sniffing in annoyance, Tywin stands erect again and walks to the door. "If you can find her, you had best prepare to defend her and her life because I will not tolerate her presence more then I tolerated this... _Shae_." He all but sneers.

Flaring red, showing his anger at last, Tyrion all but growls, "Where is Tysha?"

Opening the door, Tywin nonchalantly replies, "I don't know. Where is it that whores go?" He then walks out.

* * *

**SISTER/BROTHER**

"Sister," Sandor drunkenly slurs as Sansa enters his temporary room, "is that you?"

"He's delirious!" Sansa declares. "What happened?"

Grand Maester Pycelle finishes up the bandaging of Sandor's leg, before telling the girl that he gave Sandor milk of the poppy. He goes on to say that Sandor was high, with different reactions then if he were drunk.

"Sister!" Sandor moans.

She stayed quiet as the odd Maester gathered his instruments, books, and medicines, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Once alone, Sansa rushed to the bed and grabbed Sandor's hand. She brought it to her lips, kissing the bloody knuckles wrapped in fine gauze, and whispers "I am here, brother."

He turns his head towards her, a fine sheet of sweat pouring over his face as he fights the pain, fights the sleep that comes from the medicine, and fights to understand who Sansa is. He looks towards her face, and Sansa swears he knows who she is by her eyes, but instead: "Sweet sister, I knew you would come."

Not knowing what to do, Sansa just lays a cool hand on his fevered head, taking quick stock of his body. His armor had been removed, and so had most of his clothes. He lay under rich silk sheets except for his injured leg, which was still out in the open but heavily bandaged. Though it is a mildly warm day, he shivered with fever. Gently, Sansa reached for the furs to tug over his maimed leg. Sandor sighed, bringing her attention back to him.

"You always knew how to take care of me." He says. "I was a shit brother. But today!" And he looks animated again, eyes opening wide yet not truly focusing on Sansa. "Did you see me today, sister? I have avenged you."

She had no idea what he was talking about, but she remarked anyway, "It was very brave of you."

Sighing, Sandor says, "Yes. No fire, this time." There is silence for a while, and Sansa thinks he will sleep now, but he then he continues, "She thinks I'm brave too. The Little Bird: gods, she is more naive then you, sister."

Unable to help herself, Sansa asks, "What about this 'Little Bird', brother?"

"I haven't told you? Pretty. Kind. Innocent. Young." He squeezes her hand, and brings it over his heart. "I have her favor. But I don't know why."

Sansa wants to tell him, to state, what is to her, the obvious. However, she wants Sandor to remember, and to hear it from _her_ , and not whom he thinks is his sister; all she settles for is, "You should ask her, brother, I know she would tell you." He nods. Unable to truly keep the conversation from that direction, intrigued by the possibility of knowing, wanting, _needing_ , to know the answer, she asks: "Does she have your favor?" And then she holds her breath.

"Gods, are we in a fairy tell, sister?" He chuckles, and then coughs. He shushes her worries, and then brings her knuckles to his mouth to kiss. "Never mind me, I am just too angry. I am too stubborn to do what I should, and stay away from the girl. Does that answer you? Neither of us good for the other; was that the way of it with you and your buggering husband?"

Unsure of the truth, she answers with hope, "Yes."

Turning away from Sansa, but not before she sees tears glistening, he responds, "Aye, as you've said. Repeatedly. I should have listened to you. Then I might have been able to save you." He yawns, unable to fight for much longer. "I've been a shit brother. I hope you can forgive me. I hope today brings you peace."

Unable to bear his self-inflicted pain on top of his mortal wounds, she offers a reply that she hopes will soothe him. "You have always acted with my best interests, brother, whatever the outcome." It seems to work, as Sandor breathes easier, and even turns towards her again. His tears break her heart, "You never need ask my forgiveness, and you were always a good brother. I..." She worries about taking a dead girl's voice, but hopes this sister, and the gods, forgive her innocent kindness, "I have always, and will always, love you Sandor."

His next words though, spoken as he slips into dreamless slumber, still her thoughts: "And I you, Tysha."


	10. King's Best Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm seriously thinking of renaming this story: "The Shield". There's more protection then actual romance, plus it was a scraped title option way back when. Thoughts?
> 
> Short chapter, filler chapter, results of the small counsel meeting chapter... There's a lot floating in my head as to what's happening behind the scenes, but I don't much find inspiration to write it, as I struggle to keep this mainly SanSan, with a sprinkling of Tyrion... This chapter is a cross between Joffrey and Sandor's last meeting, and having us (and the main characters) know what happened in the small counsel meeting that I keep alluding to, but don't write about. Hope it is enjoyed!

"I would still have you as my dog," Joffrey stated, standing across from where Sandor lay prone and healing, "but mother and grandfather both demand that you pay for choosing to fight against the crown, killing a long standing loyal knight to the Lannisters, in addition to committing kin-slaying."

Queen Margaery, seated next to the uncomfortable champion and holding his tense hand, continues, "They would have had you banished to the Wall for your deed. However, both the new Coin Master, Oberyn Martell, and Varys have both spoken up for you. They say you fought for the gods, and for justice. Could there be any higher calling? I myself am glad you fought, as I have a fondness for the Stark girl, and am glad she is innocent."

Sandor snorts at that, "Forgive me if I do not share the sentiments of a eunuch or a snake, or of yourself, queen, but rather question the motives."

Margaery frowns not used to the blunt and vulgar man, but Joffrey laughs. "Well said, dog. It is no secret the Dornish hates the Lannisters, and more so Gregor Clegane. What is their next move? And Varys, well, who knows what a cockless wonder would want." Margaery rolls her eyes, and Joffrye blithely ignores her. "Be that as it may, I have used their words to ensure you are safe from sobriety and chastity in the frozen wastelands."

Sandor chuckles his thanks, "What would you have me do now?"

"Since I can not have you here, I would have you guard my uncle, the dwarf, and his wife. The wolf bitch."

Maraery gasps, "Joffrey! Lady Sansa deserves more kindness than that. Just imagine, dear husband, the horror she suffers already being married to the stunted man!"

Joffrey ignores her, walking closer to Sandor, "When you are healed, you will travel with them along the Gold Road. If you find them plotting, or straying from their duties in any way, I implore you to act in my stead, and punish them any way you see fit: in any way. Do you understand me?"

Sandor stares long and hard at the king, not truly surprised by the words, but still stunned that he will stay within the reach of the Little Bird. While his mind gets used to feelings of joy, he also has to fight the disappointment he feels that she is still in danger. Will it never end? "Sure. I've nothing better to do, now that my dear brother has departed."

Joffrey smirks, retreating to the window. "You will have Ser Addam Marbrand to help. He, along with a good number of Lannister guards, will be traveling with mine aunt and uncle. Grandfather has made his own threats to the dwarf, but I far more trust you then I do any one else."

"What threats have been made?"

Joffrey smiles, turning from the window and facing Sandor again, "You will love it, dog!" He clasps his hands with glee, "If Sansa does not become pregnant within the year of arriving at Lannisport, Tywin will have Sansa fucked like a bitch..."

"Joffrey!" Admonishes Margaery.

"Until she successfully gives us males heirs." Joffrey finishes, ignoring his wife and queen. "Perhaps I should give the command to let you have go. You'd like that, eh dog? So would she!" He cackles with glee, "I can barely stop imagining it! The proper bitch, mounted by a brute like you."

Margaery gets up at this time, and slaps her husband and king. When he returns from the force of her slight retaliation, he backhands her, causing her to gasp and look to him with tears. When Joffrey offers no apology, she rushes from the room. Her exit shows Sandor that Kingsguards Loras and Trant wait outside the door.

"Women." Joffrey states. "I can't stand their wailing."

Sandor has said and done nothing during their short exchange, except to school his features into calmness. It has gotten harder and harder over the months to do so, after years of it coming like second nature. He takes a calming breath, disguised as a sigh at the whole boorishness of their conversation. "Aye, women. And Lady Sansa is like all the rest." He then wolfishly grins for the king's sake, "I only hope the imp proves gallant, for once, so I can do as you request your grace."

They share a laugh, one more genuine then the other, then Joffrey finishes: "If you do this for me, after a year or two I will command your return to the capital."

"As you will." There is silence for a short while, and then Sandor recalls that while he had saved Sansa from being declared guilty, the matter of the assassination attempt was still open. "So we all are punished, though I proved their innocence? In the eyes of the buggering gods, no less."

Yes." The king bluntly replies. "Grandfather was most put out to loose his most loyal knight, and mother... she's just angry, no telling with women. They get angry for the most stupid reasons.

"They both want you gone, as I said. As far as the dwarf, he has been an embarrassment for too long, it is high time he leaves. And Sansa, well, she can't very well give us heirs if she isn't with her husband, can she?" He snickers. "They're innocent, yes, but they still have consequences to pay."

"And who will pay the consequence of attempting to poison you?"

A scowl appears on Joffrey's face, and he sits beside Sandor's temporary bed, sprawling like an ungainly Flea Bottom rat rather then the King he is. "Ser Illyn Payne and Lord Hand Tywin will continue with the investigations. All three Kettleback brothers have now been imprisoned, waiting their turn to be questioned, as they should have at the beginning. Mother, of course, is angry, but when is she not? Perhaps when grandfather forces her to remarry, her new husband will take her away..."

There is silence for a while. Joffrey crosses his arms over his chest, a frown on face. "I will miss you, dog."

Sandor raises his eyebrows in surprise. He coughs. "Have you been given a new sworn shield?"

"No. I'm king, with seven knights of the highest caliber. Well… three, with the absence of Uncle Jamie and Ser Arys, the imprisonment of Osmund Kettleback, and now… you."

"Rats… all of em."

"Compared to you, yes."

Sandor coughs, looks away. "You were a good boy." Is all he offers.

Joffrey coughs as well. Then stands and walks to the door. "I admit I would have liked to see my uncle beheaded, and sweet Sansa tortured, but the real culprit deserves to be congratulated, don't you think?" He turns once more to his former sworn shield, "Plus, I would have hated to have lost you, permanently. I'll see you once more before you leave, Sadnor." Then he hastily walks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PREVIEW: "Tyrion..." Then she chokes on her words, as if her heart finally caught up with her brain, and couldn't bear to say it, no matter how practical it might end up being. She doesn't cry, but she can feel them creeping on, no matter how much she wills them away. "Tyrion, " she starts again, "I do not love you, but if there is no answer before we arrive at Casterly Rock, I would..." She looks to the window of the wheel house, finding strength at not having to see Tyrion, but then finds that to be unfair to him. What has she to be ashamed form him? They are in this together. She turns back to him, looking him in the eye, "I would rather you start bedding me then wait for your father's threat."


	11. We're in this Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not terribly excited about this chapter. It has since been heavily eddited.
> 
> Next chapter should be a doozy though :p

**Westward**

A moon's turn comes and goes before Tyrion Lannister, his wife, a few household guards (including Ser Addam Marbrand), and their servants embark from the Red Keep, heading west upon the Gold Road. With them, for most of the trip, rides the new Lord of House Clegane, Sandor, headed towards his new seat so very close to Casterly Rock.

Just before Tyrion climbed into the wheelhouse he would share with Sansa, he turned to look back at the Red Keep. Ser Marbrand, yet to mount his own horse, turns to look as well. "Are you going to miss it, imp?"

Tyrion sighs, letting a beat of silence pass. Then he shuffles into the wheelhouse. "Just wondering if my dear family will survive the snakes and thorns set out to choke them."

Addam smirks, "Such treasonous thoughts. No doubt the old lion is telling his Pride to sharpen their claws. You shouldn't worry too much about them, but rather sing their praises for granting you mercy."

Tyrion stops mid-motion of closing the door, "And it is 'my lord' to you, ser." And he slams the wheelhouse door in Marbrand's face.

Mostly healed, Sandor refused to leave King's Landing in any way other then mounted upon Stranger. He leads the procession out, striking an imposing figure on his black destrier, face bared to the commons. He wears his old armor, some clothes with few holes, and worn leather boots, but he allows for a new rich forest green cloak to grace his shoulders to showcase his new status as "lord".

There is silence that follows him, the crowds no longer able to remember if they loved him for slaying the monster, or hated him for shielding the demon monkey from justice.

They are two days in their journey when Tyrion breaks the news to Sansa of Tywin's threat made towards her. And while their relationship has improved by leaps and bounds, there are times when Sansa still uses her masks to hide from others, to shield her emotions. She does so again, now, aghast at the thought that a man would threaten his son's wife, would treat a lady in such a manner. Though really, nothing should surprise her now after two years at King's Landing...

She's startled when her husband lays a gentle hand upon her tense, folded hands. "Sansa? Talk to me; we're in this together, remember?"

Looking at him, she finds him sincere in his worry, and a little of her hidden panic dissipates. She smiles for his benefit, nodding her head in agreement, _'yes they are in this together_ '. "What are we going to do about it?" She asks.

He leans back, looking more defeated than he has looked in a long while, even when on trial, he had remained strong and fierce against his nay-sayers. A little bit of coldness creeps in her heart. _'What if there is no choice; him or untold numbers of others?'_ Shuddering, she almost misses his reply, which does nothing to soothe her; "I don't know. But we have miles to go, and answers surely will come."

He won't say it, but Sansa knows there's always a possibility that an answer might not come. Sometimes, answers came and were false. Her father died from a false answer, a promise of the Wall and safety for his daughters...

She had not been prepared to lose her father. She had not been prepared to lose her golden prince to a spoiled boy, and had barely gotten used to the idea of marrying an unknown face before she was thrust upon a familiar yet frightening man, a man who belonged to the family that she wanted nothing more to do with.

She had not been prepared to grow up in such a matter by fear, pain, and blood. Nothing in the last two years was of her choosing, except to grin and bear it. Even her savior and "chosen" champion was more or less an accident rather then "chosen".

Now, quite by accident (though a happy one), she was leaving her nightmare behind. What lay ahead, while not sunshine and lemoncakes, would surely be a better trial then the one she left behind? However, there was no way of knowing. She would need to prepare for the worst, if she wanted to take charge of something, of _anything_.

And of the worst she could imagine, was not coming up with a solution where she would not have to consummate her marriage to a man not her husband, or to one she did not love.

She could admit she admired, and even loved, Tyrion to a certain extent, but she did not romantically feel for him. It was not his looks or his stature, as it had once been she could admit now. No, her love had been given to another man, whom she could not even admit feelings for, let alone kiss or hold hands in public with. Beyond that, was she even ready to lay with a man? The last time she felt comfortable with the idea of bedding down was when Sandor had started to undress her on her own wedding night. Before that, and since then, she was too scared to entertain thoughts of such.

But she would prepare, now, for the worst while she can. The reality is, Sandor is not an option yet, and might never be.

"Tyrion..." Then she chokes on her words, as if her heart finally caught up with her brain, and couldn't bear to say it, no matter how practical it might end up being. She doesn't cry, but she can feel tears creeping on, no matter how much she wills them away. "Tyrion," she starts again, "I do not love you, but if there is no answer before we arrive at Casterly Rock, I would..." She looks to the window of the wheelhouse, finding strength at not having to see the stunted man, but then finds that to be unfair to him. What has she to be ashamed form him, or of him? They are in this together, and he has been kinder then she sometimes deserved.

She turns back to him, looking him in the eye, "I would rather you start bedding me then wait for your father's threat."

He says nothing. He only nods once, a frown forming and making him look most unbecoming, and then looks away from her; ashamed he did not have a way to protect her already.

**Sunset**

They had been on the road for three days now, with a fortnight left to go, give or take. They were making good time, relatively speaking, even with the cumbersome wheelhouse. Neither Lord Tyrion nor Lady Sansa complained much, so the going was constant: slow, but constant.

Each night was spent at one inn or another, some more run down then others, some more of a brothel then a proper inn; yet each night was spent on a bed, under a roof. Between Lords Tyrion and Sandor, and Ser Marbrand, enough of the land was known for this luxury, and would continue so for most of the trip west.

This third night was a nice night for all involved. Sansa would not have to suffer the indignity of loose women surrounding her, Tyrion was able to secure two feather beds instead of one, and the train that followed them were finally organized enough that they didn't need Sandor's supervision that night.

He stood a ways from the inn, reveling in the peace he had to himself for once, and watched the sun set. The sky was awash in golds and oranges, rays of light hitting Sandor's eyes and causing him to tear up. He raised a flagon of dornish sour to his lips and drank deeply.

A dark red signaled the last of the sun's visit to the land that day, and he remembered the last time he saw his brother, Gregor, slain by his hand. The red that had flowed out from the helmet, running freely down the Mountain's armor and staining the ground as well. It signaled his own freedom; his life for so long had been chained to the desire to kill his brother, and he no longer was under that yoke.

The reds faded to crimson, then purple, then indigo. He sat on the ground, wiping at his chin some wine, and wiping some wetness that leaked from his itchy eyes. He wondered what would happen next, and felt the chain of existence tighten around him like a noose again.

He thought he would be dead by now. He thought his role in life would be done and over with. The end of Gregor was to be an end to everything: every worry, every anger, every injustice: yet it was not. It ended his fury, it is true, but it did not end his worries. Who was he to be a lord? Who was he to stay and protect the peasantry, the good folk, his peers... his Little Bird? How could he stay by her side, and not bring about the wrath of the Lannisters upon him, or her?

The stars started peeking out, shining brighter as the moon had waned to nothingness this night. They sparkled further through his glistening eyes, and he drank some more wine to dispel his thoughts.

 _'Heeheehee_ ', he hears a voice giggle, ' _This drink will not stop me from teasing you, brother!'_

_'Perhaps not, but it will make me deaf to your incessant chatter!'_

_'Haha..! Then I will tease you louder! You will never be able to drown me out, Sandor!'_

"No." Sandor whispers in the darkness, "I never will." He finishes the flagon of red, and slams it to the ground when it is empty.

_'My husband is a fine man. He is like you, you know; if you would just talk to him, and meet...'_

_'I'll do no such thing! He's a fucking dwarf! What does he know of swordsmanship, horsemanship, defending you when I cannot? He hides behind a bleeding book! His family does not want you,Tysha, they have made this whole thing into a farce! You've been married less then a moon; how can you speak to me of love with so short a time?!'_

_'Please, Sandor!'_ Blue beseeching eyes burn into his, and he wishes he had listened, unaware that was to be the last time he'd ever see those particular blues ever again. _'Please! He isn't like the rest, he loves me, I know it, and I love him!'_

_'If you choose him, then there is no place for my counsel, is there? Be gone, you are no sister of mine.'"_

"I'm sorry," he whispers, tearing up. He hangs his head, looking at his hands, stained with untold amounts of blood. For the first time, he wonders what his sister would say to that. Killing their brother had not absolved him of his past, only brought it into light.

A wind rustles through the grass, and caresses his cheek. _'You have always acted with my best interests, brother, whatever the outcome.'_ Perhaps he should drink milk of the poppy more often, it had been sweet to hear his sister once more. Taking a shaky breath, he leans his head back again to stare at the night sky, wishing he had more of Tysha's advice on what to do next. He'd listen this time, he swore it: given half a chance, he'd listen.

**All Together**

"Are you drunk?" The imp had the gall to ask him.

"So what if I am?" Sandor slurred. He had been on his own time to do what he willed, and the imp dared to question his free time?

Tyrion scoffs, "I had a mind to ask for your help, your advice, but clearly you have more important things to worry about. Wouldn't want the dog to be without his drink, would we?"

"Fuck you!"

"How do you imagine being an effective lord of a keep if you continue to live as a drunkard?"

Snarling, Sandor grabs the hilt of his sword and steps over the little lord, towering over his shit of a good-brother, wondering how much longer it would take for the guilt of his sister to fade enough for him to kill her husband… "I am NOT a lord!"

"Please!" A woman speaks, and he notices Sansa for the first time in the room that he had been summarily summoned to. "Please." She says again, calmer, as he turns to face her. She walks to him, placing a dainty hand upon his wrist that held the hilt of his weapon. "My husband did not mean it, not truly. He is stressed, as we all are."

Growling, Sandor jerks his hand away from her, but relents enough to step away from the imp and release his sword. "Of course, my lady; otherwise he is the picture of saint-hood." He is gratified to see her look displeased.

Hearing the imp sigh, he turns back towards the little lord. "The irony of me calling you drunk is not lost on me, Clegane, my apologies. But now is clearly not the time for drink. We needs come up with a plan to ensure the safety of my wife, Lady Sansa, once we reach Casterly Rock. No doubt you have heard what my father plans?"

Sandor nods, then snorts, "Of what help will I be? I'll be far enough away in Clegane's Keep, lording it over a bunch of sad sacks who'd rather see my backside then serve me, who'd rather hate me then honor me. What good is a soldier in a keep, I ask you? I…"

"They would love you," interrupts Sansa, and both men look towards her in surprise at her statement. "That is, my lord," she blushes, "they would learn to love you after a time. You are rude, crass, and brusque; but you get the job done. You worry about your lordship, more then your brother ever did, you already have more in your favor then you realize."

As he gapes at her, she blushes further, looking to the ground. He has a vision of her, as Lady Clegane, on his arm in their Keep, and he growls. "Besides all that," he turns back to Tyrion, "what makes you think I care one way or the other about _your_ wife?"

The imp scoffs, "Oh please, Clegane, we are past subtleties by now, surely? I know you care a great deal for Lady Sansa, as you once cared for my first wife. You've since collected your debt from me after I have lost her, your sister and my love; and I have noticed, despite your skills at hiding it, the same dedication towards my second wife."

Sandor says nothing, does nothing, frowning at Tyrion, ignoring Sansa's gasp at the reveal of their shared past. What is to happen if Tyrion does not believe that he has few feelings, if any, for the girl? There is little trust that flows between him and the imp.

After a second or two, Tyrion walks closer, not at all intimidated by the tall warrior towering over him, "I tell you here and now, I am overjoyed." He lets that sink in for a moment, before walking over to take Sansa's hand within his own, "It means Sansa and I have an ally in this whole wretched affair, it means we have a fighting chance to get Sansa out of the game, more then when Tysha was still alive, when you wouldn't even meet me. I just don't know how to go about getting Sansa away, which is why I summoned you here."

Tyrion walks away from Sansa and towards the desk. "Now," he clips, sitting down, "Have you any ideas?"

Sandor walks towards the desk. Slowly, one step slower then the previous one, processing the fact that Tyrion wishes to have him help Sansa, and not do it himself. If anything, Sandor had though the most kindness Tyrion would show would be to have Sansa bedded once, by him her lawful husband, and then freed to roam Casterly Rock as an imprisoned wife and mother.

Sansa deserves so much more, Sandor believes. Now, it seems so does Tyrion. The girl belonged to the north, to snow and wolves and furs, belonged to an iron and bronze crown, where she could rule as herself, not as a caged bird within a den of lions. He lays his hands on the desk, hands splayed and knuckles white, lowering his head level with the dwarf, and suggest the first thing that comes to mind: "I could take her, ride Stranger north, or to a port. Anywhere, anyhow, so long as Winterfell was the end destination."

"What with Marbrand watching our every move?" Tyrion scoffs, "He has twenty men under his command, as well as all the servants being his eyes and ears. You wouldn't make it very far before he caught you."

"No one would hurt her, or I'll kill them."

Tyrion laughs a little, "Who knew you were such a romantic, Clegane?" Sandor growls, shoving off the table; Tyrion waves a placating hand, "It is all very well and good to steal the lady, run away, and then defend her from enemies. I admire your tenacity, truly I do. But think about it, will you? You kill this one group of Lannisters, and soon enough, no matter how distracted my family may be, they will find a way to retaliate. Your lands could be burned, your people slaughtered; do you really want that on your conscious? Or an army would be sent after her, before she's ready to defend herself and her claim, and all this would be for naught."

Grunting, Sandor can do nothing to refute the statement. It's true, all of it. He starts pacing the room, frustration coming off in waves. Tyrion continues, "There will be a war with armies, there is no way around that. Between Lord Stannis plotting his next moves, my family ready to defend their right to rule, and rumors flying everywhere of dragons in Essos, there is no end to potential dangers against the North, besides the north itself. What we need for Lady Sansa is to have more then one man to back her claims, and do so without anyone the wiser till it is too late."

Sandor stops his pacing at that, glancing up at the lady in question. She smiles tremulously at him, as if she were sorry she was so much trouble. Barely sparing a thought to the imp, who now knows of their affections, Sandor reaches out for her and grasps her hand. He opens his mouth, ready to utter some words to comfort her, but he fails even that and his mouth closes.

Instead, it is she who comforts him, raising her hand not held by his and caressing his cheek, the burnt side; "This is a good start, Sandor, do not despair. We weed out the bad ideas, and there will room for good ones to appear. Between the three of us, I have no doubt we can reach a consensus on what to do." As her thumb strokes his scars, he allows a small smile to form, amused that he and his good-brother could ever agree on anything.

Releasing her hand, he turns back towards the imp, noticing the stunted man had looked away during their intimate moment, "What bad ideas of yours were weeded out, dwarf?"

They spend the rest of the night talking of plans, good and bad. Insults fly, yet cooler heads, mostly Sansa's, prevail so they all survive the meeting. And though they have no plan by the end of the evening, there is lightness in Sandor's chest that he is unable to explain as to how it occurs. When he goes to sleep, the last thing he hears is giggling on the wind.


	12. Ros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intro to a new character, which may or may not help the situation our characters find themselves in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviewers, give yourself a pat on the back, because a few comments for the previous chapter helped me find what was wrong with it (in a couple of different spots), and rewrite it. You may not have thought they were critiques, but sometimes, random thoughts get the brain going. So this chapter is dedicated to the reviewers. But I love you all who read, give "kudos" , and/or "review". *HUGS* :D (Also, if you have not reread the previous chapter, it seriously evolved... like, almost twice the length with the addition of stuff.)
> 
> WARNING: Abuse on a woman. This really pushes the "M" rating, and if that bothers you, please skip the first three paragraphs.

"Please!" Ros cries out, "Please stop! NO!" But her words do nothing to shield her from the soldier's punches. They had started out as slaps, but the more their argument evolved, the more vicious the man became.

"You dare!" He yells at her, "Whore! You were a lazy lay, a fucking disappointment, and you dare ask for coin?" He punches her side again, and she can barely gasp at the pain that lances seemingly everywhere. He yanks at her hair, her prized possession, silken strands of red that her mother had compared to rubies, and she cries in agony: "Perhaps I should just fuck your arse bloody," he pushes her around, but she's so blinded by pain, she knows not which way the sky is, "and really gets my money's worth!"

She whimpers, begs, tells him sorry, yet he does not stop. He has her forcefully eating dirt, is pulling at her clothes, when all of a sudden he yanked off of her. Whimpering, she curls into a ball, uncaring why he is gone, only glad that he is. She cries out again when her injured side flares up as she moves a certain way, and she does nothing to stop the sobs tearing her throat and tears stinging her face.

"Sansa!" She hears a rough man cry out. She wishes someone would call her name with such worry, and now she cries to have her mother near. It's is not to be. She fingers her neck, looking for the sole object her mother gave her, and grabs at the leather and silk strands that flow about her bruised neck. "Mother." she mumbles.

"Lady Catelyn is not here, Little Bird." The rough man speaks again, and she just ignores him, wanting warm water, a warm embrace, anything and everything warm and comforting. She claws at the ground, wondering how she'll make it inside, but determined to find the innkeeper and help."Sansa!" And she is abruptly pulled into a crushing hug. "AAHH!" She screams; oh the pain was unbearable!

The man lessens his hold and it is better, warmer, and kinder; he threads a hand through her hair, gently caressing her cheek while moving the strands from her face. "Little Bird," he whispers, "you are OK, I'm here, I won't ..." The man trails off as he finally gets a good look at her. She cannot get a good look at him, though, impaired by tears and an eye swollen shut.

She continues to cry, silently though, and waits for the fallout of this man finding the truth of her identity. No doubt he had thought her to be someone else: would she loose his warm embrace now that he knew differently? She waits for the standard disappointment to appear.

Calloused hands caress her cheek, staying away from bruised spots. She leans into his touch, grateful that he had saved her from the brute, that even though she was not whom he thought, he still had compassion for her.

"Who are you?" The man asks.

Sniffing, Ros answers with her name.

"Why was he hurting you?"

The man, the brute, the asshole; he had promised coin for her services, then had enjoyed her without making it worth her while. There had been no complaints from him, though, just opposite from what she could tell (and she could tell a lot of things), until she had demurely asked for her agreed upon coin. She tells the stranger, "I would not give him a free ride, and he got angry."

"Hmph." Her savior comments, "You aren't the first, and you certainly won't be the last." It does nothing to comfort her, really, but it does bring to light how cruel the world is. "Come," he starts again, "let's get you inside." Without waiting for her reply, he threads his arms around her and lifts, gently and without faltering. She gasps but once, and then leans into his heat and strength.

Ros has calmed enough to allow him to bring her into the common room of the ill-reputed inn, in front of many of her regulars, besides her peers and "owner". Her tears taper off, and she feels, surprisingly, safe in the arms of a complete stranger, no matter how much larger he seemed then her original abuser. However, she leaves her hair around her face, and ducks against him as much she can, hiding from the cruel world.

She listens as he demands linens, medicines, and a bath for her. Listens as he waves away questions and curses at those who refuse to move quickly enough. She smiles when he tells her boss that his coin was good enough to make the woman in his arms, her, free for an evening, so he, her boss, could shove his complaints up his "bloody arse". How many times she had wished to say as much?

She should be embarrassed as he, and another of her peers, help undress and bathe her, but she is not. As he strokes her body with rough cloth to clean her wounds, she feels nothing but content. She even hums as he wraps her naked wounds and body. It is only later, when they are alone and she is dressed in her cotton shift, lying upon his bed and in his arms, that she feels uncomfortable.

She never felt fear, or embarrassment, or coy when working on a man. Love was a foreign concept to her, and so were sincere romantic gestures. As the man laid beside her, fully dressed and stroking her hair, she felt confused. Obviously she was not his love, yet still he treated her like she was his everything.

Ros never had a last name, not since she had abandoned her real one so long ago, and she had added to her persona, and taken away, as each man needed. She was their fantasy, and she earned enough coin to revel in it. This man, though, did not make her his fantasy. Fantasies were devoured, because they were not real; fantasies were played with until they broke, because the users saved their gentility for the real thing: this man treated her as reverently as the real thing, and it hurt. Her heart, for the first time since "Ros" was born, shuddered with ache.

She fell asleep not knowing his name, nor what he looked like. The lone candle, her swollen eye, her weary soul; she could not see him, even if she wanted to. But why would she want to look upon he who would never be there again? Fresh tears fall, this time from loneliness.

* * *

It did not matter that the woman's screams were not Sansa's screams, or that her clothes were rough spun and she was outside the inn when the Little Bird rarely left her nest after sunset... none of that mattered when Sandor saw a redhead woman being beaten.

He could not see anything except the locks of red, so like Sansa's, no matter the ill lighting nor how far away it was, at first. He had stormed closer, had unmanned the assaulter, and killed him. It made no matter that the abuser's cloak was red; he could rot in hell for all Sandor cared.

All he cared about was his Little Bird, and how much suffering she was in. As the dead man's red cloak was staining burgundy, Sandor's own red anger faded to the background. Still there, but pushed aside for Sansa's sake, even if it was not her.

Of course he is surprised that it is not her when he first finds that her jaw line is plumper, her curves are more pronounced, that the fabric under his calloused hands are as course as he his... the final clue being her eyes, brown he can see despite the swelling and tears that confuse them.

The surprise is not that strong, though. A part of him must have known, for he doesn't release her in shock, but allows for his curiosity to explore this creature he had inadvertently saved. He probes her face, gently and avoiding bruises. She allows it, even likes it if her leaning in to his hand is any indication. She confirms his suspicions when she tells him about the man being unwilling to pay for her, that she had been willing to sell her body in the first place.

Even then, there is a small seed within his head to use her. For if he had confused her as Sansa for a short while, would that others could do the same? He is unsure if it is a good idea or not, but Sansa's own words run through his head, to explore every idea until it is proven unusable.

Beyond that, he cannot shake the other idea, the one that says it _is_ Sansa within his arms. He is not immune to the charms of whores, and has used them in the past for his needs; and he has needs to protect Sansa. While he knows he has been successful, still he feels burdened with the task of doing so without anyone the wiser. He wants to pledge his sword to Sansa, to offer his shield against pain and his cloak against the elements. He wants to do it all without worrying who might know, or find out, and damn this infernal tiptoeing about to the seven hells. And, finally, here is a woman that he can do thus for: even if he hates lies, even if in the end it might prove a hollow pursuit, he is unable to shake the urge to take care of her.

Without a complaint from the Sansa lookalike, who tells him her name is "Ros", he gives in for the night. He cleans her wounds, and dresses them, warms her shaking hands and clothes her naked pain. All of it is seen, all of it remembered, by the locals and by the Lannister guards, and there are no questions beyond the initial shock. It's a heady feeling, no matter how much he maintains his surely demeanor: serving whom he wants, how he wants. When they're finally abed together, it is not lust but contentment that has him holding her and no more. He avoids her injuries, yet manages to find ways to keep her hair, her silky auburn hair just a tad lighter then Sansa's, woven through his fingers.


	13. He Has A Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update, I may have accidently fallen into another fandom for a little while... and then got sick too. oops. Also, it's been a while since I've written a SanSan scene, right? Next chapter should do just the trick. Sorry to get your hopes up for this chapter, but! I think there are a few things in here that might hint to what's to come.
> 
> Also, I won't write about the other characters that are not around Sandor and Sansa too much, but I will try to allude to them, here and there, to get a general idea of the outside world and how it might affect them. Just pretend there are a lot of chapters involved, and we're doing a "Choose your own adventure" by staying with these two. :)
> 
> As always, thanks for the kudos and awesome comments!

Ser Addam Marbrand sits, uninvited, across from Tyrion, who is eating breakfast and reading letters an outrider from King's Landing brought the previous night. Tyrion is caught with forkful of eggs on its way to his mouth, and there is a slight pause as he acknowledges the presence of the Lannister guard, before he takes the bite.

"Have you heard?" Is the man's vague opening remark.

Tyrion swallows, "About the dragons in the east?" He asks. "Or about King Stannis fighting for, and in, the North? Or the droll news that the Sand Snakes have taken residence within the Red Keep to guard their father and his paramour? He will need it, surrounded by lions and thorns." He taps the letters on the table, "Yes, I've just finished reading my kind father's notes. He filled me in on most things, to be sure I know how little I am needed."

Addam snorts. "All very useful, I am sure, but I meant about the Hound." He proceeds to shovel food into his own mouth. They are, after all, not to loiter too much before moving on. He continues with a full mouth, "He has killed one of my men. Now, don't worry," he says, seeing his lord pinching his scared nose in exasperation, "I won't be missing this man too much. He's not worth half the man as the Hound. But, your lady wife might have to be insulted after what he has done." He takes a second to consider Tyrion, "You honestly do not know what has happened?"

"No." Tyrion replies, "Though I did notice that your men seemed to indulge in gossip more this morning then before." He washes his eggs down with a mug of ale, "If my wife should be affected, perhaps it should be I who tells her, and not another. What is the whole story, ser?"

Addam chuckles, shaking his head and starting to get off the bench, swinging his leg around, but leaning conspiratorially to Tyrion, "He has killed one of my guards; a fool yes, but still murdered, and all for a whore; but not just any whore. Look for yourself, how she ranks above my man, and your wife." He says, nodding his head once to show Tyrion where to look, then hauls himself away, no doubt towards the stables.

Tyrion frowns, looking behind him. It is then he has to do a double take, watching Clegane coming down the stairs with a peasant woman. A woman Clegane helps since she's obviously injured, a woman with striking auburn hair, who at first glance might be mistaken for another; mistaken as a highborn lady who happened to Tyrion's wife, no less.

_What is he playing at?_

Unwilling to draw attention to the fact that they have, more or less, agreed to work together, Tyrion says and does nothing, just watches with curiosity as the Hound walks through the common room of the inn with the redhead close behind, leaning on him. They grab a bunch of fruits and bread, and then proceed to walk out of the establishment, ignoring any and all glances and snide remarks made towards them.

Suddenly there is a hush within the common room. Tyrion turns around to see what has made roughly thirty rowdy men, plus the servants and others from the town, miraculously hush up. It is the object of their gossip, the one the Hound had replaced with a fantasy, their lady and his wife, Sansa.

Apprehensive, Tyrion watches as she moves towards him; smiling graciously at the men, unaware or politely ignoring their sudden lull at her presence, going to one of the servants and talking to her about her things in the room, and then walking towards him her husband with a question in her eyes.

As the innkeeper's wife brings Sansa a plate of food, she sits where Marbrand had recently vacated and bids him, "Good morning, husband."

Tyrion nods, grasping her hand in a show of affection, "Wife." He replies, smiling at her good mood.

He watches her for a few moments, allowing her peace as she eats her breakfast, listening to the hustle and bustle of the townsfolk leaving, the soldiers mounting up, and the servants scurrying around with their things.

As the last soldier leaves, and after Marbrand sticks his head in to tell the Lord and Lady Lannister the caravan only awaited their presence, a new silence falls within the inn.

Sansa breaks it as she lifts the mug of hot cider to her lips. "I am curious, husband, to know why everyone grew quiet at my appearance this morning. Do I have something on my face?" She smirks as she sips her drink.

He smirks back, "No. That would be me, my lady. They were just awed by your stunning beauty."

"As they are every other morning, my lord?" She jokingly asks.

Tyrion's smile disappears, effectively ending the lighthearted conversation they were having, much to his displeasure, "I do not wish to alarm you, Sansa, but Clegane has... done something."

There is a clunk as she lowers her cup a little too fast in surprise. "What has he done, Tyrion?" Already he knows she fears the worst. Cringing, he looks to the side, wishing he knew the full extent of Clegane's actions, but worries that the man's mistake, no matter what the extenuating circumstances, would still be too much for Sansa to face.

"Tryion?" Sansa repeats, and he turns back to her.

"I do not want to alarm you, Sansa, and I do not have all the information, but you need to know. I will only tell you what I saw, but please remember that Sandor... has an affection for you, and wants to see you safe. He probably was not thinking, or I might be wrong..."

Sansa levels a look at him, stern and mature. Tyrion, for the first time in days, stutters to a halt. Taking a breath, he prepares to hurt Sansa, "Sandor walked out of here with a... a companion on his arm. Or rather, she was leaning on him because of injuries. She… has your hair, and Sandor seemed quite content to have her near. I gather he defended her from one of our soldiers, in fact killed him over her, and then spent the night with her, but beyond that, I cannot tell you anything."

Sansa's first reaction is to look down at her plate, biting her lip and fighting an inner turmoil. Then she looks off to the side, glancing with unseeing eyes at the parchment of news that Tyrion had been reading earlier.

Her fists clench, and then unclench, stretching and smoothing against the wood of the table. After she takes a calming breath, she speaks again, though still looks off into the distance, "He has a plan, I know it."

Tyrion regards her doubtfully, "The man is not known for thinking, but for following orders. I know you regard him highly, Sansa, but I am having trouble believing his good intentions."

He barely finishes his sentence before her eyes blaze on him, fury evident, though at whom still unclear, "As I am sure he doubted you, once." Shocked, Tyrion can only gape. "I know your Tysha was his sister, I know he did not trust you, as you do not trust him now." Hurriedly, she wipes furiously at her eyes, though keeps her gaze steadily upon him; "He protected me from me many times, while making it seem otherwise. You yourself have seen proof of it when he brought me back as an 'accident' when he was 'conveniently looking for his horse' during the riots. He did it again when he protected both of us from false accusations by pretending he was more concerned with killing his brother. Those instances, and more, tell me there is more to him then you would willingly see."

Tyrion sighs, "Sansa," he rubs his eyes, "A man such as he, he may adore you, but eventually he will want more, that is why he grabbed this look-alike. Besides, you do not need to sacrifice your love for such a man just to..."

He stops when he feels her hand grabbing at his, and pulling it away from his face, searching and gaining again his sight. "But I do. I do love him. I have told him such, once. I meant it then, and I still feel it now. It grew from gratitude, it is true, but it has since grown to something more: I cannot live, nay, breathe, without his existence, as I learned when he almost died... I'll not give him up, or give up on him either." And there is nothing in Tyrion that can refute her statement. There is such adoration in her face, that even with Clegane's seemingly traitorous actions; she'd find the strength to talk to him, to work it out.

There is no need to question where the love came from. He only had his own past with Tysha to wonder at what people saw in others. And gratitude, in such harsh conditions, could form the strongest bonds. No doubt Sandor's protection of the girl, in numerous situations, had done much to gain the girl's favor, and more.

And she, gentle and kind soul, unpolluted by visions of power and grandeur, had shown the Hound more consideration as a man then he had ever received before; as Tysha had once shown a dwarf that he could be more then an ugly monster as well. That Sansa trusted Clegane's motives, even now, was proof that Clegane had more from a woman then he probably even knew he has.

If Clegane knew half of how much Sansa regarded him, he would not squander her trust, not as foolishly as Tyrion questioned Tysha's history. Not blindly anyway. Not obviously so, in front of the whole inn full of Lannister guards. Not without an ulterior motive. Tyrion felt a twinge of ... guilt? At automatically misjudging the man. He still held some reserve, a jaded outlook that thought Sansa might still be wrong. But he should not have written Clegane off so swiftly.

Nodding at Sansa, he grabs her hand again, "Sandor better know how lucky he is to have your faith in him."

Smiling again, Sansa goes to finish her breakfast, thinking all the while. Eventually, she comes to the same conclusion he has in his own mind, just moments ago; "You say the woman looks like me? Perhaps..." and here she sounds unsure again, "perhaps he wishes to switch me with her?"

"Maybe," Tyrion says, unconvinced. "It would be hard to do; we are constantly watched by Ser Marbrand, his men, and all our servants. They aren't even ours; they are my father's lapdogs. No doubt we will not be the only ones to come up with this conclusion to his plans, and eventually others will think to be on the watch out for a possible exchange."

"Tyrion." Sansa interrupts him. When he stops rambling, she continues, "I will talk to him. If that was not his original plan, I will _make_ it his plan, and we can move on from there. It is all we have right now.

"If it was love he wanted, and nothing more, I will be sure he knows that he has it, from _me_ , and then we will have nothing to fear from this woman again."

He nods his reluctant agreement. "All right." he says. "When do you plan to confront him about it, then?"

She smiles back, devilishly, in contrast to her earlier adoration. "During my name day celebration, which is in the next few days." She leans closer. "Here's what we must do..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Sansa shows a little more jealousy. And no worries, Sandor doesn't get off THAT easy.


	14. I'm Yours, You're Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice long chapter... if this doesn't cure your SanSan fix, I don't know what will (well... I do... but this story is more of a slow burner then what I normally do...) This should hold you all for the next few chapters, right? And through the ebb of inspiration I'm feeling... next chapter might not come out on schedule, I'm sorry in advance!
> 
> Also, not sure if I'm pushing the "M" rating, but the last few paragraphs are sexual. I seriously don't know the line that crosses into "E". I tried to not make it so... raunchy, because they're saying meaningful things and whatnot, and it's Sansa showing Sandor who owns his balls, literally. So you are warned. If you seriously think I need to bump up the rating, I will; but this is an oasis of love in a long story of drama, so it is not the norm... but let me know!
> 
> I look forward to the reviews on this one! :p

"Shall we make our own name day fun, my lord?" asks the woman, snaking her hands around Sandor's waist. The drunken men around them laugh, boisterously, though all Sandor can do is growl his displeasure.

"Ros," He more or less snarls, grasping one of her wrists within his hand, "I'm no..." but he shuts up, realizing the wrist underneath his hand is covered with a silk sleeve, not with wool or cotton as he expected. "What are you playing at, woman?" He asks, turning around and yanking her as well to level a glare at her.

"That's what I want to know." Sansa replies, low and dangerous, though to anyone else in the area, it may have sounded sultry. Letting go of her wrist in shock, it is all Sandor can do to not give away her presence. For a few beats of silence, but for the ruckus the drunken men are making surrounding the bonfire and with their own whores, Sandor struggles to come up with something to say. It is not a situation he is used to.

Finally, hoping she gets the idea that he's playing along as well, he asks, "I thought you were in the tent, still healing, are you sure you are up for this?"

Laughing, the Little Bird walks up to him, slaps his chest, replying that she was not so ill as to not take a walk. She was bored; didn't he want to walk with her? To which the men around them laugh, tauntingly; "The Hound isn't one for idle walks along the path with a leash!" And they laughed at their crude joke.

Sneering, Sandor crushes the Little Bird to his chest, able hear her indignant gasp and see her blush underneath hood in the dimming twilight, glad the men are too drunk to notice anything amiss. "Buggering idiots!" He looks back to the men, jeering and raising his mug of fine warm mead to the sky in a salute, "If she wants to take me for a _walk_ , I'll go for a _walk._ By the end of the night, she won't be able to _walk_ no more!" And the men laugh with him. He drains the last of the mead, before throwing it to the ground and shuffling off to the woods they were camped by, dragging his "camp follower" behind.

He doesn't take her too far, but by the time they stop, most of the party camped under the stars and reveling around a bonfire has been muted to a dull rumble. He takes a moment to stare back at the campsite, shaking his head at the stupidity that men would do, on just about any occasion to celebrate; including his Little Bird's name day.

He had thought it strange; she was just shy of three and ten when they had left Winterfell, and he did not remember them celebrating her four and tenth name day during their stay at King's Landing, he didn't think anybody, even her, cared. Here they are though celebrating her five and tenth one. He did not think it was worth the stress relief to have such a wasteful party; almost all their ale and mead was gone, as was their extra wood. Half their food stores were raided just so they could pig out, and they still had another senight journey ahead of them! Tyrion did not strike him as a man to give in to frivolous occasions just for the sake of frivolity.

He turned to face Sansa, twiddling her hands and looking anywhere but him. "This party," he states, "was so you could see me, wasn't it?"

She nods. "I had to," she whispers, "It has been so long since we have had time to ourselves." Finally, she looks to him, offering a smile. Sighing, he can do no more then smile back at her in agreement, and reach out to hug her to him.

"Damn that imp for giving in to your wishes." He states. He feels her chuckling against his chest, and quietly, admits his pleasure at her cunning. They stand there, hugging, for a few moments as the sun finishes its journey for the day, and the moon slowly appears.

He finally gives in to temptation and starts brushing her hair beneath her hood, reveling in its smoothness yet wishing all the same to see its coloring. Still, it is far nicer hair then Ros'.

While Sandor rids her head of the hood, spreading her hair free from its confines, Sansa seems to gain her courage to ask the question he knew was coming, but had no desire to be met with; "Did you sleep with her?"

He doesn't answer her for a few beats, just allows his hand to continue fingering her fiery tresses. Sighing, he finally replies, "I didn't fuck her, if that is what you mean. But I did hold her that first night, in the inn." He releases her, but still gently holds her shoulders, "I have no designs to betray you, Little Bird. I mistook her for you at first, and saved her from a beating. I then though... perhaps others could mistake her for you too. We could switch you two."

Nodding, Sansa reaches up to grab at his wrists, moving them so that they now hold hands, "I had thought so, and explained as much to Tyrion."

Frowning, Sandor comments on the first name basis Sansa seems comfortable using. She frowns in turn, "We have become friends, yes. Why shouldn't we? It is better then becoming ... becoming lovers!" Sandor has the grace to look abashed. She continues, "Why didn't you just... leave her the bed, or the couch, or somewhere you did not have to hold her? Surely your ruse to make other think you lust after your lady could have worked just as well that way?"

"You have _Tyrion_ as a bed mate and comforter when I am not near. Bah! It's practically expected of you two as man and wife! The thought of him being your husband, let alone being able to hold you at night, fills me with a loathing that barely… leaves me alone! I cannot hold you, or touch you, or give you a kind word in the presence of others, and yet he can. Ros..."

"Tyrion is no you!" Sansa interrupts. He had been about to say more, but she interjects, "There is no comparison between you and him, it's laughable! I do not wish to defame Tyrion, but he has not your stature, or prowess, or ... heat." Here she blushes, but soldiers on, "This woman could _be_ me! I cannot touch you," She walks closer holding her hands in front of her, so close to him he could see minute details of her digits, but could not feel them, "How I long to run my hands all over you, as I once had, but to do so without worry, without fear. Tyrion can touch me, it is true," and she lowers her hands as if burned, "but he does not, and he is no you. Not even close.

"This woman, this _Ros_ , could be me, could replace me, as you no doubt thought, and be a source of comfort. And that's where you are confused; I have no comfort, and am jealous that you have found a suitable lookalike. You can hold, touch, talk to _her_ and think of _me,_ and I am left with nothing, no one worthy to be called you.

"And if I did, I still would not liken him to you. You are all I want, Sandor. No one could do all for me as you have, not even Tyrion."

Stunned into silence after her outburst, he just stares at her, watching as her heaving anger slows to simmering breaths fogging into the night. He realizes how the temperature has cooled, the autumn night doing little to hide the fact that winter was close behind. Her impractical silken dress would not keep the cold at bay, no matter what her outer cloak is made of. Just as she starts to rub her arms, he wraps his own cloak around her for extra warmth. She mumbles some thanks, and he smirks yet again at her courtesies, staying to rub her arms. A silence falls in the bitter night as he contemplates her words, what he might say in turn.

Sansa has always been good with her words, and he with his actions. She knew it; she loved him for it as a matter of fact. Something he was slowly coming to realize and accept as truth, despite the incredulity of a lady falling for a mad dog. And she had just reaffirmed her desire for him, and only him, that no other could come close, or so she believed.

They had been through so much, and the fact that she still trusted him before he had to explain himself to her told him the strength of her commitment to him; that she knew of his own fealty towards her, even though he had never put it into words. He knew it, she knew it, there was just apparently the need to hear it, and say it.

Shaking his head, he knew that in the upcoming days, he would still feel bitter towards Tyrion, no matter what Sansa tells him here and now. He would always be irate against their stations in life, knowing that nothing could be done about _that,_ even if he could get her to the north without too many complications. He was almost angry that she had brought it up at all, but could never fault her for her idealism. Words were wind though; nothing he could say would make their future bright, assured, and easy. Nothing she said could do it either. The only surety he had was his sword, nothing else.

"What do you want me to say?" He finally asks, opening his hands as if offering the very question, "Look at my hands, Little Bird, and see the killer's weapons that protect you." He clenches them into fists, knuckles becoming white and leaving Sansa no doubt as to his strength, "If you want words of reassurance, those I cannot give you. In this world of killers, all I can offer you is a promise of death. Otherwise, you should seek your comfort from a witty minstrel, or your husband."

Sansa frowns deeply, tears forming in her eyes, and he hates himself for it, but he is no buggering fool. "Ros is not your enemy. But, I can tell you, if she is, I would have no trouble, _no trouble_ , killing that fucking whore." And he wrings his hands, invisible neck between them broken like an imaginary twig.

When she closes her eyes in horror, gulping down her disappointment in his ineffectual comfort, he reaches out to cup her cheek, fully expecting her to flinch away, but surprised when she leans in instead. He had expected to sneer at her once again, and admonish her for loving songs and brutish dogs and expecting them to coincide together, but instead he is silenced again by her, this time by opening crystalline blues blazing with anguish, but also acceptance.

"Ros is not my enemy." She states. He nods, "Ros is not your enemy, Little Bird."

She reaches for his hand, moving her head to kiss his wrist, surprising him with her warmth, the action racing through his arm and body, causing him to swell with ache, and need. She brings his hand down and cradles it within her two. She looks down at it, traces one of the lines, further exciting, and confusing, him. "These hands," she whispers, "would never hurt me."

He waits for her to look back at him, and then replies, "No, never." That, at least, he can promise.

After a few beats of silence, watching her study his hand, he has to know what he will be getting back to, once they leave the confines of the woods, "Where is she? Ros. If the men think she is with me, and sees her in my tent instead..."

Sighing, Sansa replies that that had been one uncertainty in their plans. Luckily, though, Ros did leave the confines of Sandor's tent in search of food and drink. With the drunk men milling about and uncaring about the girl to whom they were supposedly celebrating, no one noticed that after Sansa left Tyrion, Tyrion found his "wife" again, drinking some rich reds and took her, Ros, back to their tent. "Tyrion plans to enlist her help with our plan, though he still has many doubts about it. One step at a time." And she falls silent again, still admiring his hand.

With his free hand, he grasps her chin, raising her gaze to his so he can repeat her. "One step at time." he whispers. When she smiles, he leans down and captures her lips, captures her smile and youth, turning it to a moan of an accepting woman, a woman of fragile strength, innocent cunning, of fierce loves. He has helped her grow up, has shed her of her stupid naiveté, but he hopes she always remains as she ever was... innocent.

Releasing her lips and standing tall again, he lays his cheek on her crown and wishes her a happy name-day. She hums in reply, moving them in even closer. This time, he is not content to stroke just her hair, instead maneuvering his hands beneath her two cloaks and above her silk clad figure, finding her heat trapped there.

He feels her sigh of pleasure against his chest, her hands clenching at his tunic to ground her body to him as her senses are no doubt in a flurry. Smirking, he runs his cold hands along her sides, feeling the dip of her developing waist, thumbs stroking her flat stomach, the undersides of her growing breasts, their budding as she inhales a sharp breath, shakily moaning afterwards.

His hands trail down her back, slowing at her ass, testing to see how far she would allow him to go. She looks up to him when he pulls her flush against him, his arousal, long suffering, was made apparent to her. He swallows her gasp in yet another kiss, bending her back in an arch to keep close as they are.

Her hands trail up his chest, hesitating while he devourers her mouth. At a nip on her lips, she hesitatingly pushes at him, gently but without question telling him to break with her. Going too much further and her credibility to lead the north might vanish. She remains within the circle of his arms though, and smiles through her flushed face, basking him with her glory.

"Little Bird..." he rasps.

"Shh..." she replies, a finger against his lips. He swallows, drawing her eyes to his throat. Licking her lips, she palms his ruined cheek, stroking it with sure strokes, before exploring his jaw line, and throat. She traces the region where the scars stop and stubble begins, leaning forward to boldly kiss there, causing him to moan this time.

He loses track of her hand tracing his chest over the thick layers of tunic, jerkin, and chain mail, grunting in pleasure over her kisses instead, but quickly inhales a sharp breath of his own as his bold bird rubs her talons against his girth.

Jerking against her hand in response, he looks towards her now smirking face. She rubs him harder, slower, tormenting him in the best imaginable way. "I love you," She whispers, "and I always will. I am yours." She says.

Her other hand joins the first, and she starts to unlace him, unmanning him but catching hold of his vulnerability with her assured eyes. She reaches in, griping him as much as she can while all he can do is groan and walk them, awkwardly, to the nearest tree. He takes a moment to reach a hand to the tree behind Sansa, leaning against it as she strokes him once, and then stops. Opening his eyes to her fierce glance, she tells him, "And you are mine, no others'."

He says nothing at first, but it seems she needs no words now as she inexpertly rubs him up and down, finishing him faster then a competent whore. Choking back his pleasure, his free hand goes to her face, needing to say it, even through the haze of lust and pleasure, he wanted her to know, needed her to know; "Sansa," he grunts, "I'm yours." And then she is bringing about his roared release.


	15. Dark Wings, Dark Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have lost all control of this story... is this too much information? Damn GRRM for having so many characters and plot lines... Is it even coherent or well written? I may benefit from a beta reader (wink wink) Also... roller coaster of emotion. I did not know what I got myself into with this chapter until it was written, and I was like: should I be happy, or sad? You are warned. ;)

NORTH

"Your sister has been found, My Lady," Ser Marbrand relates to Sansa one afternoon in an inn on the road west, "she is alive and well. And, if we are to believe the words in Lord Tywin's letter, she has taken over leadership of the Vale."

Gasping, it is all Sansa can do to hide her elation, joy, confusion, and her tears. She opens her mouth in shock, and sits upon the nearest chair in the common room, staring off to space for a span of a few moments, daring to think upon her sister without the fear of false hopes.

Finally looking back at Ser Marbrand, she asks, "Do you know more, ser?"

"Aye, my lady." He responds. At Sansa's gesture, Addam sits across from her and settles comfortably. After all, the autumn rains have made their wheelhouse immobile with the mud, and Tyrion was holed up in his rooms after reading the news from his father: they were not traveling anywhere that day.

While Sansa has no idea what would have made Tyrion stunned enough to avoid even his wife, she would perhaps learn a thing or two from Ser Marbrand. He does not disappoint her. "We still do not know how your sister was able to escape the capital, but apparently she had a run in with a group of outlaws, headed by one Lord Berric Dondarrion.

"These men, calling themselves the 'Brotherhood Without Banners', have taken it upon themselves to safeguard Lady Arya, and return her to family in exchange for a ransom. Supposedly, they tried to reach the Starks at the Twins." At Sansa's horrified gasps, Marbrand waves a reassuring hand, "Fear not, my lady, they were too late to make the Red Wedding." He chuckles, "Though I'm sure my Lord Tywin would have loved to have finally found her _then_ instead of _now_ , as with how things turned out." He grins, fully expecting that Sansa might frown or give in to some sort of non-Lannister like sentiment.

When she waves a hand for him to continue, her face devoid of anger or sadness, just an icy but slightly surprised facade, he coughs into his hand, disappointed in failing to goad her. "Anyway," he continues, "it is clear they thought your aunt, the Lady Lysa Arryn, would ransom back Lady Arya. It is unclear how the next part happened, but it seemed Lady Arya won the favor and loyalty of quite a few mountain clansmen, and they, along with the Brotherhood, took over the Eyrie from Lord Petyr Baelish."

"What?!" Sansa shrieks, unable to hide her incredulousness any longer. "What was he doing there? I though he was taking over Harrenhal... why was my Aunt not there to command things?"

Chuckling, Ser Marbrand shakes his head; "Lord Baelish was never Lord of Harrenhal, that was a false promise from your lord husband. Instead, he has made his way to the Eyrie, wooed your Aunt, and married her; he then became Lord Protector of the Vale, since little Lord Robert is too young, and Lady Lysa is hardly leadership material.

"In any event, for whatever reason your sister was unhappy with Lord Petyr, and so were they other Lords of the Vale. It seemed an easy thing for Lady Arya to take over, and gain the support of the Vale. The Starks now have a new base. It is heard that the stragglers in the north are fighting amongst themselves, deciding whether to continue following Lord Bolton, or to declare once more for the Starks."

"You say this is all in Lord Tywin's missive?" Ser Marbrand nods. "How does he know so much about this?"

"Ah," Addam starts, "You will truly like this next bit of news, my lady. Lord Tywin sent some of the Lannister forces to the Vale to bring back Lord Petyr Baelsih to face the charges that are laid out against him. The Kettleback brothers, all three, have confessed to Lord Baelish's hand in almost every part of the plot to assassinate King Joffrey." At Sansa's ever widening eyes, he chuckles, "It seems you and your husband are further exonerated, my lady."

At her weary nod, eyes wandering towards the distance, he continues, "The contingent sent to the Vale made it, all right, sending news to the Hand of the King that they found that Lady Arya had already dealt Lord Baelish swift justice: the man had flown out of the moon door in course of a combat."

"Why... why did my sister... Lord Baelish has always been a family friend..." She turns confused eyes towards Marbrand again, "Arya had no reason to kill him, did she?"

"I know not, my lady." He responds unhelpfully, "However..." But Sansa does not listen to him anymore, she gets up from the table, confusedly walking outside, into the rain, barely conscious of the fact that she hand not excused herself from Ser Marbrand's presence.

* * *

EAST

"Little Bird," A Hound rasps into her ear, "you'll catch your death out here."

Swiftly turning around to see her loyal friend, Sansa moves to clutch at Sandor around his waist. Not missing a beat, he extends the heavy cloak he wears around her, shielding her from both the elements and from whatever has her all aflutter.

Taking a deep breath, inhaling his musk and warmth, she calms down and exhales, turning her head to kiss above his heart. He rubs her back, returning to her the warmth that the autumn rains had taking away.

"My sister is alive, Sandor." She mumbles into his chest.

His only response is to "hmm."

"My gods, Sandor, if I could see her again, I would... I would shout for joy! I would kiss her muddy cheeks, and make her wear breeches... " She breaks off and laughs, hearty and cheerful, one Sandor had not heard before. He reaches to bring her chin around, and basks in her joy, smiling at her happy tears. "Oh, Sandor," she continues, "Arya is alive!" And she brings him down for a kiss, full of passion and joy.

It floors him; never had he seen her so joyful and ecstatic. He had seen her happy before, but as a polite lady just barely concealing her wanderlust; here, in _his_ presence of all things, she's unfettered and free, even if just for a moment or two. The weight of all her sorrows and worries has taken a small break, and she chose to enjoy it with _him_ , the burned dog unworthy of her.

He holds her fast, lest he be swept away with her emotions. There is a stable nearby the very one he had been spending his morning, how easy it would have been to lay her upon the hay? Or the straw beds not two doors away from them, where he could lay her down and make her sing her ecstasies. When would she be so happy again? To learn the little lady was still alive was one thing; to know that she would stay thus was completely different.

He breaks the kiss, causing her to moan with disappointment, though she recovers quickly enough and smiles at him again. Bringing a hand to her face, he tenderly wipes her tears of joy, knowing that had he learned of his own sister's liveliness, he would have acted just as foolish. He bites his tongue from advising her to forget her sister, rather smirking at his Little Bird's antics; unwilling to tell her that she shouldn't hold to foolish hopes. Today, tomorrow, a senight from now, soon enough she would cry again. Here, now, he just wants her happy.

He brings her head to his chest again; content to just hold her for a little while.

"Seems like there's a lot of dead rising." He murmurs, finding it odd he has heard of multiple resurrections this morning, as well as death.

"What do you mean?" She asks his chest.

He strokes her hair, the only fire he'd willingly touch. "Dragons... in the east." He says. "There are rumors running rampant, including in this here inn, that the Targaryens are not as dead as we were led to believe."

"Who?"

"Daenerys, who was not even born yet when King's Landing was taken over. Seemed Queen Rhealla died giving birth to her elsewhere... the girl lives, in Essos, freeing slaves and... and burning cities in her wake. She intends to claim the Iron Throne next."

Sansa looks up to Sandor again, attempting to read his expressionless face. She brings a hand up to stroke his scars, unable to think of anything to say, but sure in her movements to soothe Sandor.

He grasps her hand, turning to kiss her wrists before laying her hand back on his face, silently asking her to continue, which she does. He continues his gossip, "And they say her nephew, Aegon, is still alive too. Though where he is and what power he has under his command is still unknown."

Shivering, Sansa looks down again. "Just a moment ago, everything seemed bright and full of possibilities. This news troubles me, for the north and the Targaryens have an uneasy history." She looks up to Sandor again, "And while Arya is alive, she also had a family friend killed, and I wonder if we have lost an ally: Lord Baelish is no longer with us."

If Sansa expected sympathy over the loss of Petyr, she was sorely mistaken. Sandor lets loose a quick barking laugh, and then says, "Yes, I heard about his demise, though am not sad at his passing. He was a good little liar, you shouldn't believe half the things he said." He chuckles at her confused glance, and answers her unspoken question, " _Littlefinger_ slandered against your mother's virtue, even if she considered him a good friend, rather then let others think he was spurned in his advances towards her." Sansa gasps, but he hardly lets her swallow that bit of news, when he feeds her worse info, "And the Littlefucker also lied to your father, giving him over to the Gold Cloaks when Lord Stark was assured of their support."

Tears prickle at the corner of Sansa's eyes, but Sandor feels pride at seeing her lips form a thin line. He goes for the kill, "They have proof now that he orchestrated the whole thing against King Joffrey, or did you forget about that bit of news?" He smirks at Sansa lowering her head in embarrassment, "Among all the little details he planned, he used _you_ as a pawn to deliver the poison to the feast, and then planed to _kidnap_ you afterwards. Who knows what he planned after that."

Sandor feels her shudder in disgust against him, as he had done when he first learned of the man's treachery. She looks up to him again, eyes blue and strong, despite the turmoil surrounding them; "Then perhaps Arya was right to dispose of him." She whispers. He nods at her, and she continues, "We may have been spared a false ally, we still have allies, we still have family, and perhaps since we share a common enemy with the Targaryens, that will smooth over our bitter past?"

Sandor snorts, "Don't count on it, Little Bird. But," he says, forestalling her argument, "if your mangy sister is still alive," and he chuckles as Sansa mockingly smacks him, "anything is possible."

"Yes," she agrees, smiling once again, "it is. And I have you, the strongest and most loyal warrior I could have by my side." And she more or less hauls him down for another passionate kiss, pushing mockingbirds and dragons out of both their minds for the moment, thrilling in the unnamed possibilities that glue them together.

* * *

WEST

"Hound!" Ser Marbrand shouts, ignoring the red headed whore that was tonguing the man, "We have received another rider, this time from Lannisport. Lord Tyrion wants you and his Lady to meet him within his rooms to discuss the contents of this man's letter."

Glaring at Marbrand as per usual, he growls, "I'll be there shortly."

"By the way," Marbrand continues, ignoring the Hound's ire, "have you seen Lady Sansa? I saw her run out earlier..."

"She ran into the stables," the Hound informs him, "I'll get her." He smirks down at his companion, "Just as soon as I am done with Ros here, that is."

Chuckling, Marbrand leaves them to it.

A longer while later then what Tyrion would like, Clegane brings Sansa back to the inn. His wife is soaking, with hay in her hair and tears in her face, but otherwise in good health. He frowns when hearing Sandor tells their Lannister guard that Ros had gone up the back stairs in order to avoid stares.

"A shy whore!" Marbrand is quick to joke, "Whoever heard of such!" And he laughs, smacking the back of Sandor in camaraderie. This charade was getting to close to detection for Tyrion's comfort, but he could say nothing now, not with Marbrand in the room.

Clearing his throat, he gains their attention. "It seems, my good Hound, that we will have to intrude upon her solitude for a little while longer. Perhaps for the whole of winter, if what I have found out is true."

"Buggering hells," Sandor retorts, "just spit it out."

Glaring at Clegane, letting silence permeate the room for a few beats, he does not respond. He is in no mood for charades, for tricks, for games; he has to continue though, as much as he would rather give up right now. He lets Ser Marbrand eventually answer, though Tyrion never stops glaring at Sandor.

"Both Lannisport and Casterly Rock," Addam tells Sandor and Sansa, "Have been attacked." He lets that sink in for a few moments, gathering the paper that holds the news and hands them to Sandor so that he can confirm it. "We do not know much about what is going on with the Iron Islands, especially since it is rumored that the remaining Greyjoy heirs are both captive in the North, but we do know that the squids have been attacking all along the west coast.

"According to our rider, just a few days ago a fleet of Ironborn ships entered Lannisport and raided the town and its peoples. Casterly Rock, while heavily fortified, did not fare much better. It is, to say the least, no longer habitable.

"Most of the Lannister cousins have found refuge, and Casterly Rock is already being rebuilt. Apparently, the Ironborn did not see it necessary to hold on to anything, and are just raiding, destroying or weakening defenses for later assaults, we're assuming. We are hardly the only victims. In fact, the Reach has suffered worse; the squids leave lesser lords in charge, and damage any and all seafaring defenses, while..."

Tyrion interrupts, his voice mellow and lacking his usual vigor, yet it still makes itself heard, "Once this rain lets up, Clegane, we will continue on our journey west, but will stop just short of our original destination. We will be guests at your home, Clegane; I do hope we are not inconveniencing you."

Snarling, Sandor clenches his fists around the papers he still holds, "I have no idea the state of my keep, let alone if there is food available. I cannot promise anything." He throws the papers back at Marbrand, who just lets them flutter to the floor, "There is naught I can do to keep you away, however, so just find a room in the back and keep out of my way!"

Tyrion nods, and replies, "Just keep me and my wife safe, and we have an agreement."

Sandor looks towards Lady Sansa, unfortunately standing near the loyal Lannister man; he snorts in her direction, and then leaves the room.

"Well," Addam quips, "that could have gone worse."

Tyrion spares a small smirk before frowning again. "I want to be far from here as quickly as possible. Have the horses and wheelhouse prepared for departure as soon as the rains let up. Even if it is in the middle of the night." He turns towards Sansa, extending a hand towards her. "My lady, let us retire for the day. I grow weary of all this."

* * *

SOUTH

Lord and Lady Lannister enjoyed a quiet, if strained, dinner within their rooms. Far from his usual robust enjoyment of food and wine, Tyrion hardly touched the spread of foods before them, nor sipped heartily from his wine.

When Sansa had eaten her fill, and had enjoyed reminiscing about Arya to her content, she felt fortified enough to confront her sorrowful husband. "Tryion," she hesitantly queries, "what is wrong?"

"Hm? Oh. It is nothing, Sansa, just... an old man's sorrow."

Frowning, Sansa reaches out for her husband's hand, holding tight as he halfheartedly fought to escape her grasp. "You sound so defeated, Tyrion. You are not old; you have many years ahead of you. Why! You are younger then even Sandor! Pray tell me, please, what ails you. If nothing else, you have my ear and understanding."

Turning to look at Sansa with such a forlorn look, Sansa truly wonders if she can actually make him feel better. "There have been so few people that I have been honored to call 'friend'," Tyrion starts, "and even fewer that were also 'family'. Today I have suffered perhaps the most grievous blow imaginable. Only the loss of Tysha had been harder to endure."

"Oh, Tyrion." Sansa whispers.

Tears form in his eyes, and his lips tremble; for once he looks as a child might, the sorrow untold and unimaginable bringing Sansa to her knees, wrapping her arms around her husband, trying, with marginal success, to make him feel better.

His voice wavers, though he continues speaking against her neck, "I did not want to burden you, Sansa, but I fear I can no longer keep it in with your insistence." He wraps is own short arms around her, digging his fingers into her back, and she realizes that right now, she is his lifeline, the only thing keeping him sane perhaps. "You have regained your sister, and I would truly be happy for you," he hesitates, a sob chokes out, the first of many to come, "but I have lost a sibling of my own: my dear brother Jaime, dead in the Vale, with no one to mourn him except some insane maiden knight!" And then he breaks down.

Closing her eyes, Sansa realizes how much more difficult it actually would be to comfort Tyrion then she thought. Saying nothing, she just holds on to Tyrion, as he cries on her shoulder.

She feels sympathy for him, knows the sorrow of loosing family from a distance, with nothing and no one around to truly understand her pain; but she does not share Tyrion's sorrow over Ser Jamie, rather feels indifferent.

She feels guilty with that, but she had not known Ser Jamie well, nor had any reason to respect him. Ser Jamie was not a friend of the Starks: Ser Jamie did nothing to save Sers Rickard or Brandon Stark against Mad King Aerys, is a Kingslayer, had fought against Robb, had killed many loyal to the Stark's cause, and, perhaps the most damning reason of all, had fought her father unfairly.

As her body is shaken by Tryion's shudders and sobs, Sansa closes her eyes, remembering that Ser Jamie had fought her father, for Tyrion. Her own mother, Catelyn, had unjustly accosted Tyrion for crimes he did not commit, and while Ser Jamie perhaps did not go about solving the issue in the best way he could, he did try to solve it, when Tyrion's own father seemingly did less then little to defend his youngest son's honor: would probably have rejoiced in Tyrion's demise if their recent trial was anything to go by.

Sansa could not ignore all that Ser Jamie was for Tyrion, her husband and, more importantly, her friend; he had spoken so highly of his older brother during their trek west. Sighing, she starts to caress Tyrion's hair, thinking that for most of Tyrion's life, Jamie was Tyrion's one and only supporter. When Tyrion's father and sister would have treated him like dirt, Jamie was there to be a friend. When his favorite uncles left Westeros, Jamie was there with quips and anecdotes. When Tysha had left his life, Jamie was there with a kind word. When he was falsely accused of maiming a child and no one really cared, Jamie cared enough to act rashly in defense of his little brother. Even Sansa might have preferred seeing justice for Bran over caring if Tyrion was innocent or not, so silly and stupid she was back then. Was it only a year or two ago?

Tyrion's sobs quiet down, and his hands loose their intensity. "I am sorry, Sansa." He starts, and leaves no space for her to reply as he continues, "Jamie was sent to the Vale to retrieve Baelish; he was already in the River Lands under father's orders, and had concluded his business with the Freys, Tullys, Brackens, and Blackwoods; it made sense for him to continue on to the Eyrie."

"I have heard of Baelish's treachery, you do not have to continue, Tyrion." Sansa tells Tyrion.

Tyrion nods against her neck, and she hears him sniffle. "No," he replies, "I have to talk about it, I need to make sense of it all...

"Jamie's last raven to Tywin spoke of meeting his fellow knight, Brienne of Tarth, of how she swore her sword for Arya and the Starks. He wrote about Baelish dying at the hands of a bastard knight in a trail by combat, and he wrote how he would travel south once more."

There is silence for a moment. Jamie had been so close to surviving, it seemed, as though he had no agenda to bring in Arya or struggle with the Starks anymore. Sansa closes her eyes in the irony of the situation. To die when he had just made peace...

"The next raven Tywin received," Tyrion continues, "spoke of Jamie's death." He shudders. "He was called to answer for his crimes, by Dondarrion. What a farce, my brother lost his sword hand! He could no longer fight as he once was, let alone against a knight still with all his might."

He says no more, but Sansa can guess accurately as to what followed: Jamie died with a sword in his hand; the wrong hand, the wrong time, the wrong gods.

"It will never make sense." She tells Tyrion. "All you can do is... pray for another day."

Tyrion finally pulls away from Sansa, taking a good look at the girl who became his confidant and friend, quite against all expectations. "I am sorry for your father's death."

He had said it before, and meant it, but now it came with more weight. Sansa gave a small smile in return, clasping one of his hands within hers and bringing it to her heart, "I am sorry for your loss." And she means it.

Tyrion nods gravely. "There is more," he admits, "that my father had to write."

"Shh…" Sansa says, "tomorrow. There has been a lot to digest today, and I'd rather retire, if you do not mind." Tyrion agrees.

For the first time in their marriage, they spent the night in each other's arms. Sansa's elation balanced out Tyrion's sorrow, and somehow, both managed to get a good night's sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a lot of research for this one. Not too seriously, but I did look. And if you catch something that is wrong, I won't argue too much. I'll either tell you my reasoning for purposeful changes, or thank you profusely for helping me fix some mistakes. ;) And "SOUTH" was actually going to talk about someone in the south, but that fell away with the whole Jamie issue, and he's more or less "east"... whops. Just... go with it.


	16. A Song For Tysha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If I had known..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This originally was a longer chapter, but I've decided to split it in two, so that the sucker punch that is presence really has a chance to ... punch you in the feels... tissues might be needed. And in the next one too. Sorry for the lack of SanSan here (and the next chapter) but her two men need to settle some things and start to get along. Or so I think...

Lord Tyrion Lannister stands in what once was Tysha Clegane's room. Despite Lord Clegane's command that no one disturb his sister's rooms, Tyrion felt drawn there, and cared not for the danger in disregarding Clegane's wishes: he had answers to hunt down.

Tyrion spent hours there that day with the door closed, walking from one piece of dusty furniture to the next, contemplating what life might have been like for his first wife before she was, indeed, his wife. Snippets of their conversation filter through his head, highlighting her rooms with meaning and bringing his "Tysh" back to life in a way he hadn't felt recently.

She had talked before of her favorite colors, how yellow was first, and blues made up the rest. It made sense now, yellows being her family color, and seeing her rooms brought the blues to life; all faded and dusty, but still lovely. The blues contrasted beautifully with the yellows: the navy blue thick curtains behind the sheer yellow ones: the blue cushioned chairs with yellow pillows: a doll with yellow hair, sapphire eyes, and a sky blue dress.

He picked up the doll, fingering the plain horsehair and boorish cotton dress, loving it and recalling how Tysh always complained (with a laugh) about her own black hair. Hating it, until it caught Tyrion's eye, that is.

She spoke of how much she loved him, his golden hair and mixed matched eyes, reveling in the colors she couldn't have... spending precious moments, if not hours, tracing his brows or caressing his locks, while he did the same to her.

When tears sting Tyrion's eyes, he releases Tysha's doll, and moves towards her windows. She had talked of sunrises more then sunsets; he had erroneously thought that as a farmer's daughter, she would have risen early to start chores and was used to greeting the morning sun. When he found out she was a lady, her love of the dawn confused him for the longest time. He sees now the answer: her windows face east and have a wonderful view of rolling hills with a stream running through. He doesn't see the sun now, it being high noon, but he imagines the first rays of light waking up his love, stirring her to look out towards the new day, seeing the morning shadows highlighting the hills, but slowly disappearing, along with the fogs... the blacks of night turning to indigos, purples, pinks, and finally golden brilliance.

The fog of his own thoughts dissipates upon seeing his good brother galloping back towards Clegane Keep from his inspection of local farms and the village. Impassive, he watches Sandor make his way through the gates and clatter towards the stables. The scarred man looks around his domain, gives orders to the stable boy and to a few other servants, before making his way towards the Keep.

Resolute, Tyrion steps out of Tysha's room and waits within the hallway. Patiently, he studies the cracks in the stone wall, cleans the dirt underneath his fingernails, assures himself again that Sandor's room is, in fact, the next one over, listens to the vague gruff commands of the Lord of the House, and waddles from one side to the other and back again.

He is used to waiting, and uses the time to think of what he will say and how, reminding himself why he is risking his health and Clegane's wrath.

Finally he hears the booming steps of Sandor, and sees his shadow round the corner. Coming to a stop in his pacing, Tyrion faces his good brother as he comes into view. "Clegane, I wonder if might have a word?"

The new Lord Clegane looks behind Tyrion towards his sister's rooms, noticing the open door. Glaring back at the little lord, he barks, "What?"

"I tried to find out the answers to my questions without having to involve you, but it seems my curiosity can not be satisfied without doing so."

Sandor, becoming impatient with Tyrion's long-winded approach to get to the point, walks past the still talking Tyrion, closing Tysha's room harshly before entering his rooms, but allows the dwarf to follow.

While he takes off his own armor and sword, Tyrion waddles around the solar, continuing with his request, "My father has keep me in the dark about many things in my life, and has actively prevented me from being an asset to our own family, and still, to this day, makes decisions for me, his grown son. He has even, and this is the worst thing as far as I am concerned, lied to me about my own wife."

Sandor stops what he is doing, a bit of armor hanging in one hand as he turns his head to listen more closely. Tyrion runs a hand along the splintered and mottled desk, stained with blood it looks like, but he barely notices with what is on his mind; "Your sister was the love of my life. I want you to believe me; I want you to believe is that if I had known anything, if I had been stronger, and able to stand up to my father without fearing his rejection, if I had  _wanted_  his rejection, as I do now, I would have chased after Tysha, and would have chosen her above all else. I did not forsake her because she was ruined, nor for the foolish notion that she was a peasant. Only a Lannister would think a landed knight's family was still peasantry..."

He looks at Sandor then, noticing his scowl but still staying still: willing to hear Tyrion out or angry enough to stew in silence, Tyrion knew not. Sighing, he continues, "I have just lost my brother, my father pushes for me to impregnate Sansa within a moon instead of year: I can no longer hold off wondering at my heart's desire, to defy Tywin's will that I remain ignorant;" Tyrion walks to stand just outside of Sandor's long shadow, imploring his back for support, "Sandor Clegane, good brother, all that remains to me of Tysha: where is my wife?"

If Tyrion had hoped his speech would garner sympathy from the Hound, he was sorely mistaken. He received a look of loathing so absolute, he almost cringed, except his heart was already beyond anguish at the moment; a growling dog was nothing to him now.

"You would have come back, if you knew?" Sandor snarls, "If you knew what!?" He turns to face Tyrion, his shadow obscuring the light, his silhouette large and imposing, "If you knew she was a Clegane? Bah! Your father still would have held your leash. I'm a dog? You're the dumb fuck who obeyed his father with blind obedience; you don't deserve to know where she resides.

"When you did find out she was a Clegane, did you seek me out? Or come to our home and beg for her appearance? Did you? NO!" He screams, and Tyrion hangs his head, "You fucking stayed quiet, and compliant!"

Sandor walks away, hands clenched and steps clipped, his fury barely in check. Staring out the window he continues to berate Tyrion, "If you had known, you would have done nothing. You thought her a whore, and gave up on her."

"No," Tyrion interjects, pleading, hands out begging to be helped, "I never wanted to. My father was the one that had her ill treated, who made me doubt, for which I regret, would regret, till my dying day. There was nothing I could have done, though. I was just a boy! And a dwarf besides, did you want a lonely scared green boy to loose his life fighting off numerous well trained men?"

"Yes." was Sandor's curt and unforgiving answer.

Tyrion sighs, slumping with defeat, "You are right, what worthy husband does not defend his wife? Even with a sliver of doubt as to her true identity, whore or not, she deserved my help, no matter how ineffectual."

"She was no whore." Sandor rasps, "Neither her nor her babe deserved such shit from your family."

There is silence.

Blood drains from Tyrion's face, a cold sweat breaking out on his face, neck, hands, a chill spreading along his back.

"Babe?" He asks, quiver in his voice.

"Do not tell me you did not know of that, either, dwarf." Sandor growls.

Gasping, it is all Tyrion can do to not fall down. Incredulous, he grabs a hold of the desk. "If I had known..."

Sandor turns around, "You have got to be fucking kidding me. You did not know? How could you not?! You  _raped_ her! Over and over again!" He stomps towards Tyrion, fury radiating out of his eyes, and there was no reasoning with him.

"I didn't!" Tyrion yells,  _rape? No, furthest from that possible!_ "I loved her! I LOVED HER!"

It does not stop Sandor, only fuels the rage as he stomps towards the yelling dwarf and backhands him to the floor. "You did not know anything!" He accuses his good brother, "You were not worthy of her!" He grabs the scuff of Tyrion's tunic, half hauling, half dragging the imp out of the rooms, careful to bang him against every corner possible.

"If I had known!" Tyrion shouts, it's pleading falling on deaf hears.

"Fuck you." Is all Sandor deigns to say.

Tyrion is dragged through the great hall, screaming, yelling, twisting, turning, but still captive of Sandor's grip.

Ser Marbrand is shoved rudely aside, and the calm presence of Sansa was within their guest rooms, writing a letter to her own long lost sister; Tyrion was on his own.

He does not stop with his efforts to get free, though he knows all he'll gain with his struggle are bruises and scraps, and perhaps a few seconds of freedom before Sandor grabbed him again, or chose to do worse next.

Still, he is dragged through the gates, and over a small hill, and unnecessarily through mud and puddles. At that point, it was a matter of pride to struggle.

At the end of their little trip, Sandor grunts, picking the little lord up from the ground, only to throw Tyrion, none to gently, towards a lone tree. Scampering to his feet, he glares at Sandor, dusting himself off. Sandor turns away from him, staring at the setting sun instead. "If you had known," he whispers, "you wouldn't have been able to do shit."

Stunned at the turn about in Sandor's mood, Tyrion says nothing. He too decides to stare at the sunset, trying to figure out what to say. When he thinks he has something worthy, he takes a step closer to his good brother, only to pause as his foot lands on a flat hard stone. Glancing down, there is a moment of disbelief, then horror.

Gasping, he quickly steps back, reading again the words that broke his heart further then he thought possible:

**Here lies Tysha Clegane and her bastard, Tyrion Hill.**

"No." is whispered in the wind. Tyrion falls to his knees, to his hands, to his forehead. "No. no no no no no…. NNNNOOO..!"

 


	17. Broken Hearts Will Mend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SSSOOOOO SORRY! For the late update that is... truth is, the rest of the story might suffer the same :( Life has taken a nasty turn: shit happens, and the stories suffer.
> 
> And before anyone complains about Sandor out of character-ness in his past described here, I've decided that while being burned is enough to get anyone pissed off, I wanted Tysha to be a bit more of a positive influence in Sandor's life, up until he lost her. So that describes his "aww" moments with his sister. I can say nothing about his kindness towards Tyrion. It felt right to write? That's my only defense. They're supposed to be bonding anyway!
> 
> Warnings: Teen pregnancy, murders of a nasty degree. Tissues will be needed.

_ Previously:  _

_ "If you had known," Sandor whispers, "you wouldn't have been able to do shit."  _

_ **Here lies Tysha Clegane and her bastard, Tyrion Hill.** _

_ "No." is whispered in the wind. Tyrion falls to his knees, to his hands, to his forehead. "No. no no no no no…. NNNNOOO..!" _

Hours later, a broken man drowned his sorrows at the local inn. His good brother sat across from him, and described the moment he himself had broken.

"I had disowned her when she first told me about her marriage to you;" Sandor spoke into his mug of ale, "I had refused to listen to her, to help her."

His stormy grey eyes, so unlike his sister's sapphires, lifted from his ale, now staring off into the distance, the past. Tyrion knew that, in some ways, the man was still haunted with the loss of Tysha, and that his healing had only recently begun.

Sandor's words flew out of his mouth steadily and without pause; it gave voice to what he was seeing again, and Tyrion had no doubt that had Gregor not died, and Sansa refused Sandor's devotion, Sandor would still be the reticent and vengeful man he had always known.

His matted black hair, eerily similar to his sibling, hid his scars, his clenched jaw, but could not disguise the anguish in his voice; a tale that he had always kept closely guarded, and was only now letting go, bit by bit.

Tyrion could clearly see, as Sandor did, the last hours of Tysha's life as if he himself had been there...

* * *

 

Sandor, roughly twelve years earlier, at an age of sixteen or so, stormed into Clegane Keep, shouting for answers, and receiving none. Or rather, he did not wait for them, instead choosing to run through the halls and corridors till he reached Tysha's rooms. Barreling into his sister's domain, he finally stopped, catching his breath while taking in the sight before him.

Young Tysha was abed, heavy with child at only fourteen, a midwife and a Septon taking turns wiping her sweating brow. She gasps, "Brother!" A weak whisper though filled with hope.

"I am here." He replied. And true to his intentions, he steps closer and sits aside her on the bed, grasping one of her clammy hands between his warm ones. The disapproving words of the Septon and midwife register as buzzing flies, and both sister and brother ignore them.

They both make an effort to apologize, only to similarly shush each other. He smirks, while she giggles; and then he frowns when she whimpers in pain, sapphire eyes scrunching in birthing pains.

When his fingers regain feeling after her cramps subsided temporarily, she speaks, "I tried to tell him..." then she holds up a hand to forestall anything Sandor might say to interject, "I was going to reveal everything; my true name, my relationship to you, how happy I was that he loved me for me, how much I loved him, and... and that I was pregnant."

Sandor closed his eyes, bringing her hand to his forehead, but she continued speaking that which he didn't want to hear, "I was pregnant before... Lord Tywin... "

"I know what he had done to you." Sandor growled.

"No one will believe that it was otherwise, Sandor. No one will believe my baby is Tyrion's. Please, Sandor, I need you to believe me, and tell Tyrion. After the babe's birth, I need your help to regain my husband's love, I need you to protect me and the babe, I need you! AAAHH..!" And as another contraction tore through her, Sandor's own resolve strengthened.

Tysha was obviously not the strongest Clegane physically, but she had always been unafraid to voice her opinions. The truth of it as she defied all reason to be unafraid of Gregor, refusing to be cowed by his presence and offering Sandor all the comfort she could when they were but pups themselves. And when she refused her father's love of gaudy items, him reveling in the fact that they were better than their peers now, and she chose instead to wander the countryside, barefoot and in peasant clothes; while Sandor scorned knighthood, Tysha had scorned the genteel lifestyle.

And her ultimate strength was proven when she fought words with Sandor himself, her beloved brother, to marry whom she wished... And she had been right in her choice, if it only took roughly fifteen years later for Sandor to finally believe. Shame had already flooded him the moment he had disowned her, so when he had heard she was home again, and pregnant, seven months after the fact, he had taken the opportunity to race home and fix his mistake and help his sister: little realizing that it would already be too late.

Again his fingers regained feeling and he now bore into his sister's gaze, "You needn't ever ask, sister, anything for you, now. Your babe will want for nothing. You'll never need to question my love for you again. And if I have to shake hands with your damned husband," and that earns him a tremulous smile from her, "then so be it."

He sat with her through the whole birthing process, hour through grueling hour. In between bouts of pain and screams, they spoke of their more happy moments as children, proclaiming that the child would have more of the same, and less of the horror of Gregor. Sandor spoke of what he had been doing since he had abandoned her months before, and she spoke of what Tyrion meant to her. Up until Tyrion had seen Tysha's grave, that had been the only moment Sandor ever truly believed that the imp was worth more than his family name.

Soon enough, there was a third voice in the mix. Little Tyrion Lannister the Second, born in the middle of the night, came into the world with his own opinion, and not afraid to wail it. Sandor watched carefully as the midwife cleaned the babe and swaddled him, while the Septon cleaned and checked over Tysha's health. Sandor had been the one to hold Little Tyrion with love first; noting appropriate proportions, blue eyes, and a tuft of black hair. He could be another Clegane, for all appearances, it did not help Tyrion's paternity case at all, but it mattered not with the air of innocence surrounding the little bundle, and Sandor fell swiftly, before he handed his nephew to Tysha.

He watched in awe as she cooed over him, then learned how to breastfeed her little pup. That had been the last moment, before Sansa, that he had felt content and hopeful for the future.

* * *

 

"Perhaps I should have known better and done more to protect her and whisk her away, as I originally planned, delicate health be damned. Perhaps I should look at those few hours as a blessing, but most days I see it as a curse." Sandor pauses, draining the last of his ale and signaling for another.

He glances at Tyrion, noting his rapt attention, "Sansa is too much of a similarity, and I have not failed to see the irony." He hesitates, "Being around Sansa, I relish our times together; she does more for me then she realizes. I've come to be glad that I got home first, that I got those hours with Tysha, and that we had spoken and forgave, before it was too late."

Tyrion hesitates to ask for more, stuck on the idea that Tysha survived childbirth, and so had his son... She had named their son after him. Him! She still loved him, still had held out her hand to invite him back, had the opportunity still existed.

In the span of seconds, his mind had swirled with possibilities; that with his wife, and his son. Even if she hadn't known if their son was conceived before or after Tywin's cruelty, Tyrion would not have shunned the boy. He shakes his head at his own folly as a boy, barely a man, and how much he a royally fucked up. Tysha... Tyrion... how he would have done everything for them...

Tears sting his eyes yet again that evening, for that idyllic picture was never to be realized, a tombstone is proof of that. Preparing for his broken heart to break a little further, he asks, "What happened next?" and he looks to his own ale, as if finding courage from the shallow depths.

He misses Sandor's flicker of sympathy in his eyes, though he would not have believed it had he seen it. Sandor's next words give the only balm the huge man could give to the dwarf, and the only time he ever would receive kindness from the man; "Even if you knew anything, there was nothing you could have done that I didn't try myself, that I didn't go over in my head a hundred times over, thinking of twenty different ways to have done better." He looks away again, "The anger I have for you is shadowed by my own for Gregor, and only his death could have freed me, as it did." He gulps at his new ale to wash away the bitter taste left by his dead brother, and then continues his tale.

* * *

 

Sandor had stayed within Tysha's rooms that night. They had been apart for so long; none of his campaigns had ever taken him so far or for so long that he didn't have a chance to skip home and share at least a meal with Tysh. This last separation had been by choice, of which he regretted, and they had a lot to catch up on.

And then when his sister and nephew had fallen asleep, he had stayed awake. Vigilant, prepared for what was to come, calculating and planning their next move. It was not to be, however.

Just as Sandor had made his way home once he had heard his sister was pregnant and in need, so did Gregor. Sandor made it home first only because Lord Tywin had been reluctant to release Gregor from his service at that time; as he was always reluctant.

Gregor did not so much return home, as storm through. It was the screams of the servants that alerted Sandor, causing him to instinctively grab at his sword. He had not undressed since he came home, of which he sighed a relief over. Just as he was about to run out the door, the whimpers of the newborn stopped him. Hesitating within the door frame, he looked back towards the innocents. Tysha was struggling to get to her feet, not a day healed from birthing, and her son cried out in helplessness.

Fear gripped Sandor, and for the first time since holding a sword in his hand, sweat made known its presence. It was not courage he lacked, but assurance; Gregor had never been bested by Sandor, and Sandor never had others to depend on him quite so much. What was to happen to Tysha and Little Tyrion if he failed, yet again, to defeat Gregor?

And then Gregor was upon him. The hallway was not narrow by any stretch of the imagination, but Gregor's girth made it seem so. Unable to truly duck and dodge, evade and maneuver, Sandor was stuck before Gregor. Every stroke of Gregor's sword was like a hammer, slamming Sandor against the walls again and again. And when he parried a swing, it clanged against the stone, jarring his teeth just a moment before a fist would pummel him back further.

He held steady though, successfully leading the Mountain away from their sister and her son, slowly retreating down the hall and away from the cries. Growling, fueled by his need to defend, Sandor was able to nick a few cuts on Gregor in between his armor. But the Mountain refused to budge or slow down. Indeed, he taunted his little brother instead.

"After I finish you, mangled mutt, I'll put an end to our little whore, maybe taste what I missed at Tywin's party" a screeching wail pierced through his speech, interrupting him for a second and causing him to wince at the sound, though he was quick enough to be enraged again, "and then I'll gut the little bastard too!" emphasizing that point with a vicious down swing.

It knocked Sandor to his knees, though he kept up his defense. He chose not to reply with words, snarling instead his fury. Taking the opportunity while kneeling to grab at the hilt of his boot dagger, he aimed to stab just below the breast plate and into Gregor's gut.

It was blocked by a trunk sized forearm, before a hammer sized fist slammed into his skull yet again. Seeing stars, he heard the wailing of his sister now, running down the hall _towards_ them instead of away. "No..." he groans, ineffectually, watching in horror as his brave little sister, pale and garbed in naught but an over sized nightgown, swings a fire poker at their monstrous brother's back.

It clangs, doing more damage to Tysha as she is unbalanced with the recoil of iron hitting iron, and Gregor menacingly laughs, turning in the hallway to face the new threat to his health. "What?" He booms, "A little bitch comes to fight her superior?" And he laughs, backhanding Tysha into the wall, where she crumbles.

He then turns back in time to parry one of Sandor's own blows, a weak one signaling the end of the young warrior's strength. Laughing, he lands one more solid punch to the chest of his brother, one that would have felled a normal man to death, though even now at sixteen, Sandor was taller and stronger than most; he is left wheezing and gasping for breath and ease of movement, and failing. Gregor should have been proud of his little brother for being strong enough to survive, had he any decent emotion within him, though he has none but cruel intentions.

Growling, the Mountain lays the point of his sword upon what will soon be known as the Hound's neck, and says, "If Tywin had not expressly forbade your death, I'd kill you like the dog you are..." Staring a few moments at his brother, both glaring in impotence in the inability to kill the other, Gregor then slowly turned towards the youngest Clegane.

Sandor manages a choked "No!", watching in horror as Tysha is grabbed by the neck and dragged back to her rooms and to her barely a day old son. Tears streak down his cheeks as he manages to get to his knees again, crawling towards the crying, raising a hand ahead of him as if he could summon the wind itself to help.

When the baby's shrieks are silenced suddenly, he pounds his fist, breaking his hand in the effort, and he yells his fury. Struggling to his feet, he groans in pain but otherwise refuses to let it stop him. With the wall for support, he staggers down the hall as fast as he can manage, hearing Tysha cry, hearing Tysha scream in pain, hearing her beg...

Yelling for strength, he starts to walk with more purpose, but just as he reaches her rooms, her cries choke off, and there is no more. "No!" He screams, "Nnnoooo...!"

* * *

 

"I passed out before I was able to enter the room." Sandor stopped talking then. Neither man looked at the other, unwilling to let the other know of their tears.

After a few beats of silence, Tyrion's croaked voice says, "I am now doubly glad you have killed that monster..."

Whispering, Sandor replies, "I didn't do it for you."

"No matter," Tyrion says, "you have me debt, yet again. Just... one more question?"

Sandor grunts in acquiescence.

"Why 'Hill'? If you did indeed believe he was mine, why 'Hill'?"

He does not receive an answer right away, but patiently Tyrion waits. Finally Sandor answers, "For a long while, I did not care one way or the other. I thought I'd rather my nephew named 'Hill' then 'Lannister', no matter his sire.

"But it was not my decision." The men finally look at each other, and Sandor reveals the true master of Tysha and Little Tyrion's demise, "Lord Tywin decreed that Tysha was no wife of yours, no good daughter of his, and that the babe had not been born of your union to her. It was he who demanded that the babe not be considered yours. I, angry at you, at the Lannisters, at my brother, had no problem then giving Little Tyrion a bastard name; better than 'Lannister' and 'Clegane' both, I thought."

Swallowing that bitter truth, Tyrion nods his understanding. Sandor continues, "Gregor no doubt would have found any reason to harm both Tysh and the babe, and that was one of the main reasons I never truly went against Tywin till now; I bade my time and patience against Gregor, and only Gregor. But your lordly father did command their deaths, unwilling to have an heir of such 'ill repute'."

There is silence after that.

Then: "I will not let him harm Sansa." Sandor looks to Tyrion, watching as he sits a little straighter, and finishes his ale in one large gulp. After he slams his mug down, the good brothers stare at each other, and Tyrion proclaims, "I'll not fail this wife."

Sandor finishes his own ale, and agrees: "For Sansa."


	18. Plans and Vows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This... was a toughie. Not sure I'm terribly happy with it. I am, and I'm not... probably because I've been staring and editing it for too long, time to post! In any event, I hope you all like the twist!
> 
> Thanks for all reviews and kudos!

**An Heir**

"Lady Sansa is pregnant!" Septon Meribald declared.

A hush descended in the great hall of Clegane's Keep following the Septon's joyful words. Only the lit fireplaces dispelling the autumn chills could be heard; tiny pops and crackles cheerfully accentuating the happy Septon's statement.

Ser Addam Marbrand is the first to react, standing from his spot at the high table, separated from Lords Clegane and Lannister by another guest, Lady Brienne of Tarth. Raising his goblet in salute, Addam said, with a smirk on his face, "My congratulations, Lord Tyrion!"

Tyrion, choosing not to verbally reply, instead raised his wine cup in recognition. No one else says a word, for all knew, except the simple Septon, that it is not a happy circumstance. True, most gossip of the friendship that exists between Lord and Lady Lannister, and would often joke on how it could evolve over time. However, there was no denying the kindness of Lady Sansa, and of the cruel ultimatum from her Good Father, Lord Tywin: be with child by moon's end, or suffer consequences.

No one was supposed to know, so naturally, everybody did.

Those of Clegane keep had originally expected Lord Sandor to be as bad as, or worse, then Gregor; for their liege, LordTyrion, to tax their lives to death or to make unhealthy, demonic, demands of their daughters; and none expected that the Lady Sansa would have anything to offer except a high chin and a polished nose, cruel beauty and impossible demands. Now, not even a few weeks upon the gentry's arrival, the servants know better, and enjoy a kind and prosperous household.

Septon Marribald and his traveling companion, Dog, stood there in the center of the main hall for a few moments, smile dwindling, wondering at the lack of merriment. Thoroughly ignored, he coughed to stall, was going to question things, when an elderly matron patted his shoulder and whispered, "I'll tell ye over tea, good sir." and she guides him to where a seat has been saved for him...

Sandor scowled into his wine cup, frustrated at having to be in the hall while "Sansa" was being attended to by her "handmaiden", poked and prodded like a brood mare. It was pure luck that the Septon had been in the area at all; that he did not know Lady Sansa's face, that Ser Marbrand did not push the issue of being in the room while Sansa was examined. Sandor frowned more deeply at that; Marbrand was getting too free with his liberties. It proved that luck would not always be on their side. Silently, Sandor fumed, wanting to be prepared for any eventuality, but unable to predict the fall out of his, Sansa, and Tyrion's little scheme.

Besides, the idea of  _Sansa, pregnant_ did not sit with him well at all. There would be a time when she would be pregnant for true, but not by him; it surprises him how much that hurts.

If all went according to plan, she would marry a northerner, and breed out wolves worthy of the Stark line. Sandor swallowed his unacknowledged grief in one gulp from the wine in front of him: the end of his part in her life was looming larger and larger, when for a while there had not been any clear end to their plans. Or indeed, any type of feelings admitted.

It seemed a waste that it had been said at all: no good would come of a Lady with a Lord Hound for an ally. He wonders if it would not have been better for Sansa to have said nothing during her name day celebrations; would he be less despondent with the idea of her leaving, or was he merely fooling himself? He gestured for more wine.

Tyrion was better at hiding his displeasure; he too had noticed Marbrand's "eagerness to please", especially his father, Lord Tywin. Planning to travel to King's Landing again, Tyrion wondered if he could command Marbrand to come along, since it seemed that Lady Brienne, who had been kind enough to bring Ser Jaime's body thus far, wished to stay with Lady Sansa. Perhaps the exchange of knights would benefit everybody... especially his wife.

He would leave a pregnant "Sansa" behind, but only because he needed to escort Jaime to his father's presence, since Lannisport and Casterly Rock were not pleasant places to be at the moment. Rumors still have it that the fires of the Ironborn besiegers still raged.

Leaving Sansa behind was essential for their plans, plus Tyrion had no real desire to bring her back to the dangers of court. However, he had come to cherish their friendship, one of many that he could count on one hand, and was loathe to part with that, if nothing else.

But he also left behind his first wife's grave, a son's grave, and an heir not yet born. His ties to Clegane keep seemed to get stronger and stronger; he had found a measure of peace there, and, while loathe to admit any particular feelings towards  _Sandor,_ he did come to enjoy all that Clegane Keep, and its surrounding hills, had to offer: a ghost of Tysha lingered, Tyrion mused.

Tyrion was NOT looking forward to seeing family that was still alive any time soon. The last one he tolerated, nay loved, lay dead just outside the walls…

But perhaps the angriest at the head table within Clegane's Keep that night of Sansa's joyful news, was Ser Brienne of Tarth.

Her hand had clenched around the goblet as soon as she had heard the Septon's words, but had wisely stayed quiet. There would be time to confront all parties involved, though she did not relish the idea of either clashing swords with Sandor, or words with Tyrion. And, if she were truly honest with herself, conversing with the young lady seemed like a scary thing as well. She was to be the miniature of Lady Catelyn; Brienne was not sure she could handle seeing the kind lady's ghost.

If Sansa were indeed pregnant, plans to save her, protect her, transport her; all that and more, just got a lot more complicated. No matter that the Keep held a healthy number of Lannister guards, a ferocious Hound, and a small group of guards Clegane had already hired, Brienne would save Sansa. Or die trying, just like Jaime.

She could not fail: not Catelyn, nor Arya, nor herself. And Jaime, his death would have meaning, she avowed it atop all the others.

When the last of the desert dishes had been cleared away, she turned towards Lord Tyrion, asking to see Lady Sansa.

Finishing his wine, Tyrion answered, "I go to see my brother," referencing Ser Jaime that Brienne was escorting from the River Lands to King's Landing as a goodwill gesture from Lady Arya towards the Lannisters; or, more specifically, towards Lord Tyrion. "I wish to pay my respects in private while I have the chance. Perhaps my good brother, Lord Sandor, can show you to Lady Sansa's rooms?" and without waiting for a reply, he waddled down and away from the head table.

Brienne then looked towards Sandor, a confused look on her features as to how he and Tyrion were "good-brothers". The Hound merely grunted and stood from the table. Ser Marbrand stood as well, saying "Perhaps I can give my congratulations to the lady as well?"

Sandor merely nodded brusquely, leading the way in a rather clipped pace as well. Upon reaching the lady's rooms, Sandor rapped four times, awaiting Sansa's welcoming reply, and opened the door for Sers Addam and Brienne.

Brienne pushed through, gasping at the sight that greeted her. She had heard of Sansa's beauty and her similarities to her mother, but was not prepared to see the likeness of Lady Catelyn before her. The younger girl was seated demurely by the fire, the light giving her haunted look Brienne had seen many times in the short occasion she had in Catelyn's presence.

At her feet lay one of Clegane's dogs, which had lifted his head upon their arrival. Seeing his master, he had once more laid its head on its paws. Around Sansa shuffled a maid, also of red hair, but of course cloth. Settling her gaze again on Sansa, Brienne closed her surprised mouth before stiffly bowing before the lady. "Lady Sansa," she manages to stutter, "I have long wished to make your acquaintance."

She gets a perplexed look, quick in its appearance, before Sansa again adopts a kind and generous outlook. "I have heard you come from the Vale. Do you bring word from my sister?"

"That, and more, my lady;" was Brienne's reply, "I also met your mother, knew her for a few senights before her death. She had charged me once with your protection, and to bring you home."

Sansa smiles, "I thank you," she says, "but I  _am_ home." At Brienne's confused look, she continues, "Wherever my husband is, there so is my heart, and home." She looks to her stomach, flat and unassuming, laying her hands upon its span, "I am to have his heir, a Westerner," she looks again towards Ser Brienne, and flits towards Ser Marbrand, "I will remain in the Westlands. Happily." And she smiles for effect.

Ser Addam walks up next to Ser Brienne, bowing his respects, "I add my congratulations, Lady Sansa. Let me be the first to say I had my doubts, but am happy to be disproved. You are a true lady, beautiful and gracious. May your child be masculine and strong."

"I thank you, Ser Addam." Sansa replied, "You have been so kind escorting me and my husband; your deeds will not go forgotten."

Sansa looks to the rest of the group there, lingering on Sandor while he glowers at the fire, but she looks away before her own sadness can show, "Please, I would like some rest. But," and she looks towards the female knight, "I would have words with Lady Brienne. If she would be so kind as to share my mother's last few moments? And of news of my sister?"

They all nod, leaving Brienne, Sansa, and the maid within the rooms.

* * *

**A Song for Ser Jaime**

Hours later, Ser Brienne found Lord Tyrion still within the outer ward, sitting with his deceased older brother currently residing within a large flat wagon.

There was a decided lack of finery surrounding the man whose very name demanded riches and gold coffins, pomp and heraldry, and all the rest that came when royalty was laid to permanent rest. Brienne found it fitting, however; Ser Jaime was more then a Lannister, but at the same time, less then a Lannister as well. She couldn't fully describe it: the man had no honor, yet deserved more then what his name could give him in death.

She walked closer, laying a hand upon her comrade's shoulder and squeezing. Truly, their last few moons together had morphed into a friendship she never would have conceived of, and was just getting to appreciate, before he died.

As Brienne had relayed to Lady Sansa just moments ago, throughout the whole misery of trying to find the Stark sisters, and take them home, she and Jaime both had found a measure of peace with the other. He respected the female knight as no other contemporary knight had done, and she challenged him to face his failings, and make attempts to change them.

Lady Arya would go home, the plans were in the making; Lady Sansa declared she was home, though the truth of it rang hollow as far as Brienne could tell. Looking at Ser Jaime's closed eyes, Brienne wiped his brow, finding courage to be intimate when he was no longer able to deny her the fact that they were, indeed, friends. She ran her thick calloused fingers down Jaime's chiseled but cold cheeks, the sharpness of his jaw, and the hollow of his throat that spoke no more, and swallowed at the bitterness of it all.

Turning around to face the younger brother, she reached for her sword, and slowly drew it out. The slice of metal on leather rang through the yard, and the gleam of the blade cut through the darkness and lightened Brienne's heart as it weighed comfortably in her hand.

"Ser Jaime once begged me to continue his pledge to Lady Catelyn Stark," Brienne told Tyrion, "The same one I had made to her myself; the return of her daughters to the North, to home and safety."

Lord Tyrion looked inquisitively at her, not denying her nor comprehending her really.

Brienne balanced the blade between her two hands, looking at it, "This sword was a gift to me, from him. Its name is 'Oathkeeper', for he hoped to gain his honor back by keeping this one vow, and that I would always have mine, no matter how many vows taken.

"It's reforged Valyrian steel, from the Stark's own legendary sword, 'Ice'; the honor of the Starks runs through it as well, no matter how much Lord Tywin might wish to change that."

Brienne grasped the hilt, which ended with a lion's head swallowing a ruby, and raised the sword to the sky, following her gaze upward to the tip as it seemingly pierced a star. "Lady Arya was gracious enough to allow me to keep it, adding her own wish that I find the Lady Sansa, her sister, and save her."

Lowing the point towards Tyrion, who neither blanched nor moved to defend himself, and glared at him with a fierce womanly gaze that, had she been more comely, could have brought men to their knees. Tyrion saw in that moment how strong she was as a woman, not just as a warrior, to have taught Jaime the finer points of being a man, and not just a knight. He again swallowed the tears for his brother.

"I  _will_ save Sansa," Brienne growled, "No matter what words you have trained her to say."

"And I would not stop you." Tyrion replies, stepping closer to the sword point, feeling his throat being pierced, yet not afraid. Her honor would not kill him like this, not with what he had to say. Not when she was alone within a keep full of, seemingly, her enemies: this was a promise of hers directed at his throat, not a fulfillment.

"You have it all wrong," he reasoned, "She is protecting herself from you, not me, as she learned in King's Landing, and again, not by me." He saw the flicker of doubt in the warrior's face, and placed a hand on the blade at his throat, "Until just now, none of us knew what your intentions were, no matter that you had come here from Arya, carrying the remains of my brother to please  _me_."

"Us?" Brienne queries, "Are you telling me that you and Sansa are working together? How can you? You... you violated her!" Tyrion started shaking his head no, raising his hands in submission, "You impregnated her! She's so very far from the North and you only plan to leave her here while you go south, abandoning her!"

"My lady!" Tyrion interjects, "My lady," he says when Brienne stops her tirade, breathing heavily. "Sansa is  _not_ pregnant."

He allows that to sink in for a moment, enjoying the confusion that flickers upon the woman's face. "What?" she whispers.

Slowly maneuvering the blade away from his throat, he answers, "It is the handmaiden that is pregnant. Willingly, I might add. The one who is also red of hair, who hasn't left Sansa's side since we've stopped here in Clegane's Keep."

"But," Brienne tries to figure it out, "Speton Meribald... is he in on it too?"

Tyrion laughs, "Gods, no! He is too good for his own well-being. No, the man can neither read nor write, but has the whole text of the Seven Pointed Star memorized and is simple enough for the simple folk. He can tell a pregnant woman from a barren one, he walks thither and hither throughout the River Lands, serving the gods as much as he serves the people of the land, and it was rather fortuitous for us that he strayed west this once.

"The Septon has never met Sansa, only knows her as a young redhead lady. Sandor Clegane took him to meet Ros, the pregnant servant I mentioned, and told our good Septon that  _she_ was Sansa."

Mouth agape, Brienne is left to wonder at that news, when she suddenly glares again, "Sandor?"

Sighing dramatically, Tyrion nods. "Yes, the big brute is in love with our Lady. But pray you do not let him know that you know. It will tarnish his image."

"I cannot believe it!" Brienne states, "Clegane has ruined the River Lands, he kills without thought! He..."

"No." Tyrion interrupts, "Sandor is not Gregor, and I'll only say that once, it does indeed pain me to admit that much myself. Sandor has protected Sansa more then once, and has done so without many realizing. He has been with Sansa in private as well, but, along with me in the mix, her virtue remains intact.

"She  _will_ go North, as you wish, will be free of the Lannister's hold, and of me. She'll have her name again, and will able to secure the North through a more beneficial marriage then any I could offer.

"But first, she must die."

He gives Brienne a hard look, daring her to question the logic in the two very different statements. "That makes no sense." She declares.

Smirking, Tyrion replies, "Of course it doesn't. Allow me to explain." He sits down on one of the benches in the yard, making himself comfortable, staring not at Brienne, but Jaime, laying in repose behind her. "My mother died in childbirth, though I lived. My first wife, I've come to learn, died in childbirth, as did the child. My second wife will, and I stress this next word,  _seemingly_  die, as well, but the babe will live.

"It will be tricky, we don't know who to trust, but know we will need others to make this plan work, especially as most of the servants already know what she looks like...

"At some point in nine or so moons, a letter will make its way to King's Landing to let my father know that he has his damned heir, but that the mother perished.

"Sansa will obviously need to make appearances until she's declared 'dead', with clever schemes to make it so she looks pregnant, especially if Ser Marbrand will stay as my father's eyes and ears. After Sansa's 'death', with no one needing to see her again after the very private funeral, she will then be able to leave, under disguise, while Ros stays on as a caretaker to the 'motherless child'.

Chuckling, he looks at Brienne with the silly thought he has, "Ros will be unable to nurse her own child, to avoid suspicion. A small price for her, in any case, in comparison to what else she has lost, and gained." He looks away again. "Sandor wanted the child to perish as well... why make problems with inheritance later on once it's revealed that Sansa did live?

"Not truly perish," he amended, noticing Brienne's look of horror at that bit, "Only surviving and being known as another lowly child. However," Tyrion grumbles, "Ros felt that her child would have a better life known as a little lord or lady, and not as an orphan. It was her only demand. How could the kind Sansa refuse?" He looked down at his hands, "How could I refuse? It will be a lord's child, after all..." And he fell quiet after that.

Taking it all in, Brienne slumps down on the bench next to Tyrion, comically sprawled with her sword disgracefully held to the side in a lackadaisical manner. Looking across the yard towards Ser Jaime's prone body, she wonders what he would have thought of this farce. For the first time since his death, she smiles at imagining him; he did say his little brother was clever...

"How did he die?" Said brother appropriately asked.

Brienne balances "Oathkeeper" on her knees, a better position for the weapon, and drew strength from its solid weight. She ran a hand up and down its cool steel, remembering Jamie with every pass, silently contemplating his last moments alive.

"Fighting for his crimes." She finally revealed. She senses that she has Tyrion's undivided attention, but does not look at him. "When we finally caught up with Arya in the Vale, she was under the protection of the Brotherhood, who had already made Lord Baelish answer his own crimes, as you've no doubt heard. They demanded Ser Jaime do the same.

"Arya, to her credit, seemed undecided about what to do. Ser Jaime admitted to pushing Bran Stark out the window, of harming Lord Stark unjustly, and many more sins. And he refused to defend his actions against the Mad King, leaving that to me. Arya seemed perplexed to run into someone who not only admitted his crimes, but also was truly remorseful.

"I tried to speak for Jaime, to be his champion, but he would not let me do the latter." Tears silently fall down Brienne's face now. "Arya heard his sins,  _and_  his good deeds. I made sure of it. Jaime already served time what with losing his sword hand, and making the journey with me just for her, and his vow to her mother. He did not have to be there, I waylaid him from going back to King's Landing and to Cersei. But he did so willingly; eager it seemed, to make amends. He had gone so far as to beg the opportunity to pledge his sword to Arya, at least to get her home before returning to his Kingsguard duties. Arya was convinced, I could tell, her earlier confusion slowly but surely turning into belief.

"However, I do not think she has command of the Brotherhood. I do not think they are good for her in the long run...

"In any event, Ser Jaime fought against an adamant Ser Beric Dondarrion. In the end, the 'Red God' must have a strange sense of justice, for both Jaime and Beric passed from this world to the next; one with a sword through the heart, and one whose multiple wounds bled out beyond repair."

Brienne looked up from the sword towards Jaime, and finished her tale. "I stayed long enough to see the red priest burn his lord and friend, and reassure Arya her trust was not misplaced. I assured her that returning Jaime was not a foolish move, and that I would not break my word to her; the same one made to her mother, and to your brother. As it is, I won't be welcome back unless it is with Lady Sansa in tow."

A silence falls. Soon enough, she feels Tyrion's hand grab hers, holding tight. "Thank you for telling me." He says.

 


	19. I'm Not Worthy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very interesting writing Sandor's point of view here, I'm not sure I do him justice... If that doesn't sound like a plea for comments, I don't know what will! :) That is all I will say about this particular chapter for now.
> 
> Point of interest: As of the previous chapter, this is now my longest story written! Though the previous "longest story written" is a series of one-shots within an alternate universe, so that doesn't really count, I don't think. But... YEA TO SELF! hahaha.. probably not my most popular story, but definitely a milestone for myself.
> 
> Thanks to all reviews, kudos and bookmarks. I'm sure all the romantics will love this chapter :)

Sandor Clegane was ready for bed. It had been a long day, what with receiving unwanted visitors and having to play a part he'd rather not in order to save Sansa's life and honor. The farce was risky, and grated on his nerves. He doubted he would get much sleep, but he very much wanted to do a face plant upon his feather bed.

Before he could do such a delicious thing, however, he had one lordly duty to attend. He again escorted the Septon towards Sansa's rooms so the old man could give advice to the pregnant lady, and assure her against any anxieties she might have. He scoffed, causing the bald man to look at him in curiosity; as if the "pregnant woman" would not know what to expect!

Upon reaching Lady Sansa's door, Sandor rapped, twice, and awaited her reply. They had to wait a moment while she begged time to dress. Apparently, nightgowns, thick and voluminous, without any imagination whatsoever, still needed to be covered by a robe. Of course, that's what they needed the holy man to believe...

The door opened, and Sansa peeked out at the two men. She lowered her eyes immediately, and whispered, "My Lady Sansa is ready, my lords."

Smiling, Septon Marribald placed a hand on her head, "Blessed Ros," he spoke, "there is no need for such courtesies around me, a simple man of the gods. I pray your night is calm and peaceful." And he removed his hand gently.

"Ros" curtsied, then scurried down the hall, one of his new hunting dogs, Florian, following her with a calm gait. Sandor watched her while Septon Marribald chuckled, bemused at Sandor's appreciation of the hesitant handmaiden. "She is very shy, is she not, m'lord? She is truly blessed by the Maiden." He turned towards Sandor, "I have seen how you treat your servants; I am ever so pleased at what I see and am sure Ros will become a strong and sure woman some day. You do credit to your house."

Sandor grunted, saying nothing.

"Well," Maribald finished, "my thanks, and good night, m'lord." He received a curt nod from Sandor, and the holy man opened the door wider to enter. Sandor glimpsed "Sansa" standing by the fire, dressed in rich silks and a warm robe, hands upon her stomach, before the door closed before him. Through the wood, he heard Maribald inquiring after "his lady Sansa's" health, and Ros' haltingly formal words replying favorably.

Sighing, he turned towards the servants rooms, earlier plans waylaid at seeing Sansa shy again. It made him angry, he wanted to punch the Septon's face in, and tell Sansa to show her fire again, to have her speak unafraid at him again, and take control of him as she had on her nameday. Fuck... he was her dog and any scrap from her would be enough. But for her to never be terrified again would please him to his deathbed, and indeed, it was worth everything.

Very soon, they would only have to worry about tricking the household that Sansa was pregnant, and not that Ros was the lady. Tomorrow, Septon Meribald would leave (thank the gods!) Despite "Sansa's" well meaning pleas for him to stay, Meribald would go and tend to his fold throughout the land. There was such war and ravishment that still needed healing, even beyond the Riverlands, and the holy man was dutiful, if not hardy.

Sandor, with Tyrion and Sansa's insistence, planed to give the holy man a cartload of supplies. Well... the man wouldn't talk of false plans, so it was no hair off his arse.

He didn't have to walk very far before he caught up with Sansa, just about to enter Ros' quarters. Without words, he took her arm and guided her the rest of the way, the need to touch almost overwhelming. Once inside, he gently pushed her against the closed door, leaning against her, bending his knees so he could bury his face within her neck, trailing a hand down her waist, hip, and thigh. Grabbing it, he hefts her up, supporting her between muscle and wood, and moved to kiss her full on the lips.

Her moans fill the silence; a sweet tune he never thought would be caused by him, the burned, unloved Hound. Her arms snake around his neck, fingers scratching lightly at his skin along the way, threading into his scalp; at the tingling sensation, he grunts, unconsciously bringing himself closer to her.

She is the one to break the kiss, leaning her head back to stare into his eyes. He returns her gaze, liking the decided lack of makeup, how simple her hair is, how easy it would be to take her handmaiden clothes off... swallowing, he says, "If you were my servant for true, you would never survive a maiden for very long."

Sansa blushes, but doesn't seem pleased by it; "You would not pay me any second glance, if I had not been born a lady."

Frowning further then what is etched already, Sandor replies, "Is that what you truly think?" He brings a hand to her face as she nods, caressing her cheek with the back of his fingers. "I could not give a fuck if you were a lady or not."

Sansa chokes out a laugh. She should know him by now, that his words would never comfort her as a singer's would. Tears inexplicably come, and Sandor releases her from his hold, allowing her feet to touch the floor again. Placing his warm palms on her shoulders, he looks at her with as open a face as he can, whispering words of comfort that would not come twice in one lifetime.

"It isn't your status that calls to me, Little Bird. Not your riches, your finery, or even your name. You're beautiful: hells but a man gets hard just looking at you." He spares a moment to chuckles darkly before continuing, "But it is you, Sansa, you that I want, and crave."

He runs his hands down her arms, grabbing at her hands and bringing them to his lips, kissing their knuckles. "Peasant, lady, whore," he smirks at her infuriated blush, "I would heed your call no matter what you were. For you, not if finery surrounds you or not."

Mouth agape, she stares at him for a few beats, summoning the willpower to answer, but finally settles for hugging his middle, whispering, "Then I wish I truly had been born low."

Sighing, he doesn't answer, choosing to hold her back, placing his cheek upon her lavender scented hair. Soon enough, she would "die", go north, claim her birthright, before announcing to the world, along with Arya, that the Starks were very much alive; while he'd stay behind, pledge Clegane's Keep to her cause, no matter that Lord Tywin is his liege, and afterwards left to live his life alone, but satisfied to have known her. He had wondered earlier if it had been worth it, becoming this attached to her when no good could come out of it; but he had been wrong, and he knew it the moment she had looked out from her rooms with a mask on again. It would be worth it to know she never would have to hide again.

Still, unable to leave well enough alone, he now whispers his own doubts. "It is me that has no right to have you in my arms; I should not have had a second glance from you."

"Is that what you truly think?" She replies, muffled against his chest.

Chuckling, Sandor leans back and takes her chin in his hand, "Pretty Little Bird, repeating that what others have already said." Thumbing her emerging smile, he teases her some more, "I guess you'll tell me next that it is my beautiful vision that stuns you into wanting me, that you would take me as a knight or a farmer."

"Of course," She whispers, smirking herself, "your siren's song is irresistible."

He can't stand it; she blossoms within his presence and, gods, it made him feel good, really good: as close to feeling worthy as he had in a long time.

Surging anew, he assaults her lips with his, picking her up and moving towards the bed. Her face betrays nothing but trust in him as she bounces on the straw bed, watching him curiously as he takes off his sword belt, and removes his cloak. When his fingers reach for the strings of his doublet, she starts talking again, "You won't hurt me, and you never have."

Sandor grunts in acknowledgment, flinging the doublet somewhere behind him.

"You tell me truths, you save me from the lions, you protect me from the masses."

His tunic now litters the floor as well, and he leans over his charge, gathering an ankle and staring in to her blue pools.

"You are brave," her breath hitches as his hand travels north, "gentle," her cheeks betray her, tinting scarlet as his hand gently squeezes her thigh, "and strong." He stops her incessant drivel by kissing her again, biting her lips as his fingers explore her lower lips from beneath her silken underclothes. Somehow, the idea of Ros and Sansa not exchanging undergarments gets him harder.

He registers her hands spanning his chest, tickling him sensually, spurning him on as he relieves her burden of modesty and throws her smallclothes to the void.

Releasing her lips as he goes back to finger her, he again finds trust on her face, along with joy. The last time they shared a bed, the night before he killed his brother, her innocent fear had been apparent, despite his wish not to notice. Now, however, as he made an extra effort to be aware, there was nothing but submission on her part.

"Is it any wonder," Sansa breaths as he ghosts along her outer lips, "that I give you myself willingly?"

Halting, Sandor's breath hitches. He had thought she was convincing herself, but here she was, still assuaging his own doubts of his worthiness, answering his earlier question as to having her in his arms. No one had ever thought much of him in the last decade, it had been a very lonely existence since, and now Sansa goes on about his virtues, as if he were the Warrior himself.

She is wrong, of course, but he will not tell her that and ruin the moment when he is so close to pleasure. However, he will not take all that she offers, even if he was dying for it. He would not destroy her future just to satiate their shared past. He would protect her from himself, no matter what she said.

Moment of hesitation over, warm calloused fingers gently invades her silken warmth; the man watching the woman below for signs of discomfort.

There is wonder, and relaxation, and then surprise. Moment by moment, Sandor feels his worry recede, as every pump of his fingers is met with wetness and acceptance; almost, at times, as if she would not let him go. His heart swells with a delicious ache as she reaches out for him as well, digging her fingers into his shoulders to anchor herself, instead of reaching for the sheets as so many others have done. Pride blooms that he is the first man to bring her this, and he hasn't fucked it up, has no plans to fuck it up.

He finds her hardened nub with his thumb, circling it and pressing into it. She jumps, mouth agape and voicing her song quite beautifully. Her hips start meeting his fingers; hesitant at first, then with more excitement.

All too soon, her pleasure crescendos, a final note cried out as her womanhood clenches his fingers, a wetness saturating them, and her own nails draw blood upon his shoulders.

He slows his fingers down, drawing out her pleasure and taking his own happiness at seeing her so flushed and satisfied, meeting her eyes again as she calms, finding no trace of disgust, remorse, or guilt. He cannot believe what it is that stares back at him, but for once he feels good having a woman in his bed. The mutual pleasure would be a shining memory of their time together.

He only regrets what the Lannisters have done to her, and that she is too noble for him, is too virtuous for the likes of a dirty dog, and he will not despoil what is left of that.

Contradictorily, he would take anything else she'd give him.

Leaning back on his haunches, Sandor takes his time to untie his laces and remove his aching cock. He takes himself in hand, the wet hand that had pleasured the Little Bird, and with his other hand to steady him, leans over Sansa again.

He takes in her pink cheeks, her open mouth, glazed vision, heaving bosom underneath the servant clothing, and groans. "See what you do to me." He states, taking in his length in a stroke, "Gods..." he mumbles, closing his eyes only after seeing her look down appreciatively at his member.

A stroke goes by before he feels her again, hands running down his back, her feet coming on the back of his knees, then traveling up his thighs, settling around his waist, gaining in strength as she learns how to hold on. Opening his eyes again, he sees her determined face, feels her arch into him, his hand over his cock feeling her heat come closer.

In a haze, he rips the bodice of her cotton dress, half of it coming off her and causing her to gasp in surprise. The gasp is swallowed by a kiss, and the freed breast is molded by his hand, then her waist, hip, and lower back, bringing their bodies flush, their hips dangerously aligned.

He does not enter her though. Conscious enough of his own personal vow, he only guides himself up and down her weeping center, but does not take the last of her innocence. He feels her mashed against him, and takes delight at her cool smooth skin against his heated harsh body, her lips against his own, their duet filling the room.

Her legs, her arms, her mouth: all over and around him. Gods, he is but a damned man, and she his personal Maiden.

It is too much. Growling, he rips himself from her, almost biting her lip in the process, and lays upon his back. His hand again the source of his pleasure, he grunts and groans, feeling her hand hesitatingly join his, and he growls his finish, as if angry with himself.

When he opens his eyes again, the last of his haze dissipating, Sansa had already gotten off the bed. He would be worried, but as he watched, heavy breaths turning to contentment, she comfortably undressed in front of him, shameless and unafraid. From time to time, he gains smiles from her as she shyly roamed the room for a clean and whole shift, and he followed her with memorizing eyes, seeing her as he wished he could always see her.

She could demand he leave, he could request her to stay naked: neither does.

Humming in happiness, Sansa rejoins him on the lumpy straw bed, wrapping an arm and leg over him, using his arm as a pillow. She looks as if she wishes to say something, perhaps inquire why he did not take what she was freely offered, but thankfully she remains content to hum. Not bothering to re-lace his breeches, Sandor only brings a coarse sheet over them. Sansa lightly caresses his scowls, his scars, till he falls asleep, still hearing her song. Soon enough, she lays her head upon his chest, and follows.

And that is how Ser Marbrand finds them the next morning.


	20. Stranger in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Without spoiling what will happen, just know to watch out for something dastardly. If none of the previous chapters did it for anyone, I don't imagine this one doing it either, but still... en garde.
> 
> Also, lots of slapping too. :)

Ser Adam Marbrand: honorable knight, loyal man, a commander easily followed, comely looking, and unwedded: the perfect bachelor. He took a deep swallow of his ale, looking around the hall for his next fantasy.

Most of his waking hours were more militaristic, political, or businesslike, but he was a man, same as the next, with the same needs as any other red blooded male. Every now and then, especially in peaceful times, he would entertain thoughts of a wife.

Not that it was a peaceful time; he amends, gesturing for a serving wench to refill his mug. However, ever since he was given command of the guards surrounding Tyrion and his wife, there had been more down time then not in the course of their journey west. He started to drain his second mug, looking at said lady, sitting at the high table with protective hands over a stomach that carried the Lannister heir. Well, one of them.

Running a hand over his mouth, he recalls the other heir, long time friend and fellow knight, Jamie Lannister, slain by some disreputable knight and left to rot without recompense, so far anyway. He had not heard anything, yet, but Addam was sure Lord Tywin had plans in mind, and he was sure he would leave this boring existence behind.

But not before he had a woman. It had been a while, probably since one of the nicer "inns" they had passed along the way. Watching Sansa blossom into woman hood, and glowing with motherhood, caused him an ache, a jealousy, a need.

And fellow man, Sandor, promised to help out. Marbrand had not known the Hound to ever entertain thoughts of gentleness or kindness towards the fairer sex, but it was understandable. The Hound was now a lord, expected to wed and gain sons somehow, and he also suffered the presence of a beautiful maiden. Everyone was suffering that vision... Marbrand chuckles, what a sweet torture!

He remembers sharing a laugh with Sandor, probably one of the more raucous times he ever spent in the Hounds presence, laughing over his good fortune to get the proverbial bone: Ros, the Lady Lannister lookalike. Sandor even promised to share. But what really impressed Marbrand was the Hound's kindness towards the whore turned servant; saving her from rape, caring for her wounds, bringing her along, and laying with her. _Laying_ with her, as if she were more then something to fuck.

The Hound even protected her modesty when Addam barged into her room looking for the lord of the keep. All Marbrand had caught was her bright red hair and naked arms before Clegane had jumped from the bed, an imposing figure that would capture anyone's attention, even away from a naked woman.

Said woman was not in the hall, Marbrand notes, smirking. _Probably resting after being bedded by the fierce Hound, even day and night later!_ For her to please such a man, Marbrand could not wait to ride her himself. He would be gentle, kind, and give her pleasure; he was not a brute after all, and it played into his own fantasies. The finally wedded man, loving his wife and gaining pleasure in return, having a home to come to, symbolized by her arms around him, and his head cushioned upon her breast...

Gods know he would hate being married for life, leaving her behind, expected to remain celibate every time he went on campaigns because he would _never_ stop his way of life, not for any woman. But he could pretend, for a short while, that he could accept that quaint lifestyle, and be happy with it.

Given the choice, he'd rather marry the sword, but alas, his body craves the touch of women more then he can ignore, or would want to. There's too much joy in the romp to truly, seriously, without laughing, think of remaining chaste.

The hour came.

He watched Lady Sansa demurely get up from the high table, smiling benevolently throughout the all, even sharing a nod with him, before donning her rich ermine cloak to walk outdoors. Addam watched, amused, calculating, as Tyrion escorted his wife with an air of grace unbelievable with differing heights and gaits. But it worked.

Once they were out of sight, Addam and Sandor walked together through the rougher halls, shouting orders to servants, soldiers, and the quartermaster. At one point, Marbrand asked Sandor, "Is it set? Are you sure we are alright?"

Surely, the man, dog-like though he might be, would still harbor some possessiveness towards a woman he had for more then was seen before with him, and showed kind deference towards the same. Addam considered Sandor an acquaintance, if not friend, and would not push that boundary further than was necessary. There were plenty of ale wenches for him, that he could forgo yet another fantasy with a lady's handmaiden.

He had to shudder when Sandor nodded with his own brand of a wolfish grin, ugly scars doing it no favors. Recovering quickly enough (he was used to Sandor's looks), he then smirked in turn.

A small number of Lannister guards were, yet again, traveling with the Imp; this time, making their way back to King's Landing. They would go quicker this time, without a Lady among them, without a wheelhouse and without a large supply train. Of course, they would have to be mindful of the wagon with the reposed body of Ser Jaime, but still, their journey southeast would be quick.

Marbrand and Clegane stood side by side as they watched the lord and lady Lannister share a few moments. Even Addam had to applaud their growing friendship. He could not see love between them, yet, but throughout their travels west, and their time at Clegane's Keep; the new Lannister couple had slowly but surely grew more and more attached, friendly, even smiling at one another. Addam was a Lannister man through and through, but even he was glad that Lady Sansa would not have to be shamed and violated uselessly. More so, he was glad he would not have to witness Tyrion loose a second wife.

Lady Sansa's hood was up, with a few wisps of red hair peeking out. Her lord husband caught a strand in his hand, rubbing it between his fingers as he spoke to his wife. Sandor snorts next to Addam as they watch the little husband take out a knife to cut the strand of hair he had been fingering, and they both turn away as the imp gently prods the beauty to lean down for a chaste kiss. _Perhaps they were well on their way to love after all,_ Addam muses.

A few goodbyes and commands later, a few horses and carts less, and the small outer ward of Clegane's Keep was relatively quiet. Clearing his throat, Lord Sandor, as host, offered his arm to Lady Sansa and escorted her inside.

Addam followed. Noted them entering the lady's rooms, noted the Hound exiting once more. The men shared a nod, and then Addam was alone in the corridor.

And he waited.

Finally, he saw the handmaiden exit the rooms. She glided, effortlessly, as if in a daze, down the hall. She was not headed towards the servant's quarters, but he followed nevertheless.

He whispered her name, but she did not turn, only continued on serenely, starting to hum as well. Smirking, he allowed her the game, grinning more broadly when he realized where they were going: the stables. He did not even curse the coldness of the outdoors; it added to the allure, in his mind.

She had to know he was there, but he stalked her anyway, keeping quiet. He only made his move just as she stopped in front of one of the stalls, Stranger's stall had he paid any attention.

Forgoing introductions, he wrapped his arms around the slim figure, landing one hand on a breast. He heard her gasp, and laughed in her ear, "Yes, I am going to bed you nicely." He ground his growing erection against her bottom, earning him another gasp.

"No!" She screamed. "Get off me!" she yelled, squirming in his arms.

Confused, Addam let her go, briefly noting the agitated horse as well. His eyes widen upon seeing the rearing horse, and he blindly grabbed for Ros' arm. "Come, wench," he said, slowly backing away from the stall, "you are right, another area will be better."

He received a slap for his efforts. Glowering now, he whipped to face Ros, only to blanch in horror: Lady Sansa stood in front of him. "How dare you!" She fumed, throwing all her authority into her ire, "I am a lady, NOT your wench!" She slapped him again, and he automatically let go of her.

Stuttering, his brain wouldn't work; his mouth opened and closed in confusion. Did Clegane not promise Ros? Did he mishear? He had honestly though... "My lady...!" He stammered, trying to figure out a way to get out of this inadvertent mess, "I ... I ..."

But no more came out of his mouth, for suddenly Stranger trampled him to the ground, striking shoulder, neck, and head.

* * *

"Well," Sandor quipped, "that turned out better then I thought it would."

He received a slap for his efforts. "How dare you!" his lady seethed, "Why did you not tell me what you had planned? I trusted you!" She turned away from him, looking down at the floor, no doubt hiding her tears. "I feel so... violated..."

He walked up to her, determined to soothe her, but she shrugged off his hands violently as he laid them upon her shaking shoulders. He pulled at his hair as she stalked a few steps away, now standing in front of her mare's stall.

The recent incident involving Ser Addam Marbrand and his untimely demise had shaken Sansa more then Sandor had anticipated, even more so since Addam had apparently fondled Sansa as well. While Sandor found it fortuitous that his planted spy, the stable hand, would have irrefutable evidence to share with others that Marbrand had done a grave insult, worthy of a beheading Sandor hoped, Sansa did NOT find the situation acceptable.

He had told Marbrand to wait for Ros to leave Sansa's quarters, but not that she was always the first to leave. Sansa would, at times, take a walk before sleeping. Sandor waited within the shadows, always nearby, in case things did not go according to plan.

Servants had been told to work late, as punishment for some ill deed or another. He planted them throughout the keep, places Sansa would at times go at night: the kitchens, the servant quarters, the gardens, the dilapidated Sept, and, yes, the stables as well. Truly, it was a miracle that everything happened as it did: that Marbrand had no chance to admit to a mistake for the servant to overhear, that he died then and there, that Sansa played her part beautifully (if unknowingly), and that Stranger had come to her rescue as well. Sandor could kiss his horse.

That Stranger had delivered the death blow was also a point of contention between them. Sandor was proud, Sansa was distraught.

Of course, she had held her composure all the while soldiers and stable hands made sense of what happened, while a Lannister guard was given the unfortunate duty to clean and dress their commander for burial, while Stranger harmed five other men before Sandor himself hauled him away to a more private stall. The hustle and bustle distracted others from the fact that their lady was having trouble breathing, or focusing, but no doubt someone would have commented had she started bawling.

Only after the two were left alone, Lord Clegane ordering the others to leave, did her anger and tears truly show, and she took it out on Sandor.

"How could you?" She whispered to the floor, "When you told me you would take care of him, I thought..." She shook her head, "I don't know what I thought, but I did not think he would die, or that I would have to witness it!" And her shoulders shook more violently.

Sandor wanted to tell her he hadn't thought she would have to witness Marbrand's brutal death either. At most, he thought they'd be lucky for Marbrand to be charged by his peers, stripped of rank and knighthood, and beheaded, or, at the least, sent away.

He would kiss his lady, if he could, hold her and soothe her and shield her from all harm. Guilt pooled in his stomach that he actually planned to put her in harm's way just to frame another. He hated games, and look what he had just done. The alternative was losing his lordship for killing Marbrand without good reason, or loosing Sansa if they allowed Marbrand to live. Swallowing bile, Sandor had no doubt the ploy between Sansa and Ros would have been found out sooner or later if things were left as is.

"I told you once, Little Bird, how this world runs; by killers." He says instead, kindness swept away by his own fury at having to resort to such plans instead of killing Marbrand himself. "How do you expect you will rule? The way things are? Without strong arms, without bloodshed, it will be _you_ who will, once again, find herself in a cage. Is that what you want? Did I take you away from King's Landing for naught?"

"Stop it!" She cried, turning to him with fury, "Stop it!" She walked up to him, and abruptly stopped before him, shaking in fury and rage, holding back her desire to bodily harm him, he could see. "I will make them love me! I won't be like Queen Cersei, or like Joffrey! I'll be kind, and generous, and... and... you'll see! We won't need to kill everyone because..."

"Because not one in thousands will ever have a different thought, an ill intention?" He interrupts. "Stop painting such a pretty picture, Little Bird, it won't last in this world of shit."

She slaps him again, and he takes it, staring at her with compassion not found in his words. Her lip then trembles, "Why can't it be like that?" She asks, her anger at Sandor fading. He watches resignation bloom, causing her to wilt, shoulders hunching and gaze lowering away again. "He was not a cruel man," She said, hugging herself, "he was loyal, brave, fierce; but he was an enemy all the same." She turned away and started walking back to the dark keep. Once she reached the door, the moon hitting her features and the wind pulling at her nightgown's hem, she turned halfway to face Sandor once more, "If you ever do something like that to me again, I will have you thrown in the dungeons." Then she continues on her way, never looking back as he roared his own anger, and laid waste to the stables.


End file.
